


Winter's Wolf

by sifshadowheart



Series: Now Go Fail Again [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fix-It, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canon What Canon?, Character Tags To Be Added - Freeform, Crossover in the sense of taking GoT Jon and sending him to an alternate ASoIaF world, Dragonlords, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Pre-Slash, Relationship Tags to Be Added - Freeform, Slash, Valyrian, Warg Jon Snow, Warging, dragon lore
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2020-01-26
Packaged: 2020-04-08 04:30:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 60,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19099762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sifshadowheart/pseuds/sifshadowheart
Summary: Jon didn’t know, as time seemed to still and he watched his death rushing towards him why that resonated so deeply within him.Why those words meant so much: now go fail again.Especially since he was in the midst of doing just that.At least, he was.  Right up until he was made an offer - to go, to possibly fail again, and in the process perhaps save another world from suffering the fate of his.Time-Travel A/U Fix-It





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING THIS FIC CONTAINS THE FOLLOWING:
> 
> SLASH, A/B/O Dynamics including MPreg, Alternate Universe, A/U: Time Travel, Canon-Typical Themes such as: Violence, Murder, Torture, and Incest.
> 
> .....
> 
> I was hesitant to post anything new again due to backlash over having so many active WIPs but with some encouragement from some wonderful people I decided to share this with you. It's currently about 20K completed and shaping up to be another long one so I'm sorry for that. But it's been a fun write so far and, really, with the way GoT was left off another Fix-It certainly isn't going to hurt anything.

** Winter’s Wolf **

_A Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire Story_

By Sif Shadowheart

Disclaimer:  All characters of GoT and/or ASoIaF belong to either HBO or George RR Martin.  This is only fanfiction with no profit or infringement intended.

**WARNING THIS FIC CONTAINS THE FOLLOWING:**

SLASH, A/B/O Dynamics including MPreg, Alternate Universe, A/U: Time Travel, Canon-Typical Themes such as: Violence, Murder, Torture, and Incest.

**Chapter One: Now Go Fail Again**

At that exact moment in time, as the blue-white flames of the White Walker version of Viserion crashed down upon him, mingling with the green-flecked bronze flames of his own mount Rhaegal, Jon wasn’t certain who had the right of it after all.

Ser Alliser Thorne or Ser Davos Seaworth.

Both men had had their opinions – strong ones – regarding him and his choices, and that hadn’t abated after one had betrayed him and the other had beseeched a Red Priestess to bring him back to life.

Perhaps Ser Alliser had it right after all: _“But you, Lord Snow?  You’ll be fighting their wars forever.”_

Since _forever_ was ending in wicked cold and dragon fire, Jon wasn’t as certain as he’d like that Thorne had been wrong but he wasn’t certain he wasn’t right either.

Maybe it was as Ser Davos said, the words almost echoing in his head.

“ _You were dead, and now you’re not.  That’s completely, fucking_ mad _seems to me, I can’t imagine how it seems to you.”_

 _“I did what I thought was right and I got murdered for it.  Now I’m back.  Why?”_ Jon had demanded desperately all those moons ago.

_“I don’t know.  Maybe we’ll never know.  What does it matter?  You go on.  You fight for as long as you can.  You clean up as much of the shit as you can.”_

_“I don’t know how to do that.”_   He’d told him, shock and depression crashing down on his head.  _“I thought I did but…I failed.”_

_“Good.  Now go fail again.”_

Jon didn’t know, as time seemed to still and he watched his death rushing towards him why that resonated so deeply within him.

Why those words meant so much: _now go fail again_.

Especially since he was in the midst of doing just that.

It’d been his idea to go fetch a wight to prove to all of the southron people that the true enemy was real and that the true enemy was the dead.

Viserion had died for that idea.

And for what purpose in the end?

To bring down the Wall?

To lose what little protection against the Night King with his White Walker generals and wight army they had to their name?

If he’d never gone out on that scouting party, never insisted it needed done, then Viserion wouldn’t have fallen.

The Wall wouldn’t have fallen.

And he wouldn’t be staring down a wall of ice-fire and dragon-fire waiting for it to take him.

Though, he thought looking around in confusion as the conflagration burned just out of range of touching him even with the heat that threatened to blister his skin, it certainly seemed to be taking its time about it.

 _Always so hard on yourself, young one_.

Jon couldn’t see anything or anyone beyond the sheer walls of flame that encompassed him, but he could’ve sworn he’d heard someone speaking.

 _Always so certain to hold yourself to a standard no one else would dare to press upon you_.

Feeling like an idiot _and_ a fool, Jon spoke.

“Who-who’s there?”  He blinked a thought occurring to him.  “If I’m dead again I wish you’d just let me sleep this time!”

_Even if it meant you failed to save millions of lives?_

Well, fuck.

The voice had him there.

And at least this time it seemed whoever it was – or whatever – they were deigning to _ask_ this time before ripping him out of his well-deserved rest.

Though there was a lot more fire and chit-chat than he remembered in being dead.

Mayhaps a consequence of the Red Woman ripping him from his peace last time.

And wouldn’t _that_ just figure?

Being punished once again for the actions of others that he had no choice or part in.

“No.”  His shoulder slumped.  “Not if it meant the death of millions.”

_You are a warrior, Jon Snow or Jaehaerys Targaryen, whichever name you use.  You are the shield that guarded this realm of men.  Now your watch has, once more, ended._

“Then I can rest?”

Jon wished he didn’t sounds as ruddy _hopeful_ about that prospect but he couldn’t help it.

Too much had fallen on him, too much had already been lost for him to truly _want_ to continue when the future was bleaker than bleak even _if_ , by some miracle, another managed to destroy the Night King.

There was still Cersei to contend with.

And Dany…he loved her, truly he did, but he wasn’t blind either.

She’d started something that day she’d flown away with her dragons and returned with the news she’d burned prisoners alive, something that he feared with the loss of Viserion and the news of Jon’s circumstances of birth that she was losing control of.

 _You see much, young one._   The voice spoke again, almost unutterably warm with affection.  Though how that was Jon couldn’t even begin to puzzle out.  _This world_ will _fall.  It was written in the stars the day The Prince Who Was Promised was allowed to take the Black rather than claim his kingdom._

“I never wanted it.”  Jon sighed, shaking his head, weary to his bones of reiterating the same thing.  “I never asked for it.  Who sired and birthed me hasn’t changed that, even for a moment.”

 _But the_ good _you could have done with it would have saved this world, Jon Snow.  Now it will fall to fire.  The wildfire of Cersei Lannister.  The dragonfire of Daenerys Targaryen.  By the time the Mad Queens are finished with Westeros it will be, as you warned, a graveyard.  Ten generations or more will pass before the land truly recovers.  The fate of this world has been sealed._

“Wow.”  Jon blinked.  “Even when I hallucinate there’s naught but bad and worse news.”

 _This is no fever-dream brought about by your incipient death, Jon Snow._ Now the voice was snapping rather than affectionate.  What it said about Jon that he preferred it that way, he didn’t care to contemplate as the flames continued to roar around him but never touching him.  _This is a chance to prevent what has happened here from occurring elsewhere._

“Elsewhere?”  He frowned.  “Essos?”

_Not hardly.  Another world Jon Snow.  One different than this in some ways and identical in others.  A place where there is no Jon Snow to make friends of Wildlings and Northmen, to guard the realms of men and face the coming Long Night unfaltering._

Well the voice was right about one thing.

He wasn’t certain this was all a figment any longer as the idea of other worlds wasn’t one he’d entertained for even a moment in his life.

“Other worlds?”

 _Surely you didn’t think that this world was the_ only _world?_ At least the voice was back to amused instead of sounding two second from biting his head off.  _There are more worlds than there are stars in the night sky or trees in the ranges beyond the wall.  There is one where a Promised Prince might find a way to save it from falling to fire or to ice.  If he wished._

“Why?”  Jon was nothing short of baffled.

For if this _wasn’t_ a sign that his mind had finally broken, then it meant…

It meant that he was having a conversation moments from his final death with a _god_ and that was more than he ever wanted to think about in his life for all that he’d been faithful to the old gods and brought back to life by a priestess of R’hllor.

“Why would you do this, offer this?”

_Why not?  A champion should not be so lightly thrown away by the wheels of fate.  Perhaps it is your destiny.  Perhaps it is nothing more than chance.  However…_

Jon held in an eyeroll though he was certain the… _being_ knew it anyway.

Here it came: the catch.

 _Only death can pay for life.  Jon Snow did not exist in the world you could save from the same fate as that of your home.  The one whose death we would use is already sealed.  They have agreed.  Knowing this, would you still wish to save millions of lives with the knowledge that every action you take in your new world and new life will change the fate of that world, moving it away from the future you’ve seen and leaving you blind in time though one moment is set: the Night King_ will _rise._

“Whose life?”

_Rhaegal and Viserion.  The latter’s release from undeath as a White Walker would be a kindness.  The former is set to die of his wounds from battling his brother.  A dragon’s life is worth much more than a man’s, in the end, no matter what men have to say about it, at least when it comes to power._

“If I can’t be Jon Snow there, then who will I be?”

_You agree then?_

Jon sucked in a harsh breath, staring at the living cocoon of flame surrounding him and saying a mental goodbye to all he knew.

“To save my people, whether they know or claim me or not?”  He nodded.  “I agree.”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the flames _leapt_ for him.

Though they weren’t the only thing as a heavy weight hit him with four paws and sent him falling back, back, back, into nothing at all.

And then all he saw was black.

…

“Quite the loyal friend you have there, Jon Snow.”

Opening his eyes as if waking from a long sleep, Jon turned towards the voice.

It wasn’t the same voice as the one he’d heard in the midst of the flames, it rather lacked something in age and depth and…an otherworldly power he couldn’t find a word for in any of the languages he spoke or had been educated in.

Crouching and petting the sides of Ghost – just as large as ever, as tall as a horse but broader for all that Jon had never tried to ride him as the Winter Kings of old were purported to do – who was laying on his back and shamelessly wriggling into the belly-rubs being handed out by another creature of legend.

“By all the gods.”  Jon breathed, eyes blinking rapidly though his vision was locked on the pair and blind to all else around him.  “You’re one of the Children!”

“I am.”  The Child of the Forest nodded regally, rising to his – _his, he was rather certain the Child was a he_ – diminutive height that made Jon look a giant and Ghost a true monster of legend in comparison.  “And you are the Prince Who Was Promised…just not here.”  The Child smiled enigmatically.  “Funny how that works.  One world has a loose-lipped seer and it ends in flames.  Another has dynamics and a whole new host of problems all the while the Night King gathers – though that war is yet to come, here.”

“Dynamics?”  Jon frowned, wrapping his tongue around the strange word.  “And what would those be?”

Turning in place, he looked at the surroundings as the Child explained, grounding himself in the feel of the cool plaster walls of the manse, complete with friezes, the sort of place he’d only seen in his dreams and made the castle of Winterfell look like a crude shack in comparison.

“Dynamics is a turn this world took that separated its fate from the one you first knew beyond the lack of your personal prophecy.  People are born with their genitalia.”  The Child spoke so matter-of-factly that Jon refused to blush at the topic.  He wasn’t a green boy anymore for all that he often felt it.  “But the same as the Children, upon reaching between three-and-ten and twenty years of age they develop secondary sex characteristics.  Their dynamic.”

Jon frowned.  “I’m thinking there’s more to it than that.”  He prompted when no further explanation was forthcoming.  Especially as he had a feeling if he was expected to blend in in this new world that _he_ must have one of these “dynamics” of his own.

“You’d be right and it’s all wrapped up in culture.”  The Child shrugged.  “To my people you were what you were and could mate who you wished.”  The Child wrinkled their nose.  “You others make things so complicated.  The base of it is that Alphas are the physically strongest dynamic.  They can have issues with aggression if not properly socialized and taught and can be triggered into rut by a receptive and compatible mate.  Betas are the bulk of the dynamics, they don’t have rut and have only short heats lasting a day or so once every one or two moons.  Omegas are the nurturers.  They fall into heat anywhere from once to four times for every twelve or thirteen moons, and have the best chance of carrying healthy children.  Female alphas can both sire and bear children, as can male omegas.”

“And that’s just the base of things?”  Jon felt as if his head was spinning.  “What am I, in this new world?”

“A mirror of your old one.”  The Child told him, not without sympathy.  “As you were a child born of a Stark and a Targaryen but looked solely Stark, now you are the child of a Stark and a different dragonlord of Old Valyria with the Valyrian look.  I suspect were there dynamics in your last world you would have been an Alpha.  Therefore…”

“Here I’m an… _omega_.”  Jon’s tongue almost tripped over the strange word.

The Child nodded.  “Yes.”

“And my parents, my family?”

In wordless answer, the Child pointed to a doorway, Jon taking the hint and preceding the Child as they walked, followed by Ghost, farther into the elegant manse.

A Stark and a dragonlord, he’d been told.

Only…as far as he knew there _were_ no more dragonlords other than the Targaryens and even they could no longer claim the title until Daenerys became the Mother of Dragons for over a hundred and fifty years.

“Oh…”  Jon sighed out brokenly at the sight of the figure laying in her bed as if asleep though even from the doorway of the room he saw the death-pale tinge of her skin.

He knew that face.

He’d stared into a masculine version of it in every still pool of water or polished metal mirror all his life.

Seen Arya begin to grow into one so similar it broke their father’s… _uncle’s_ , in Jon’s case…heart.

“Lyanna Stark.”  Jon knelt down next to her death bed.  “Older than I remembered.”

“She didn’t die birthing you in Dorne in this life.”  The Child told him.  “In this life she was an alpha female, not a suitable or recommended consort for the alpha male Crown Prince.  She fled to Essos rather than marry Robert Baratheon, another alpha male though he didn’t care that the match wasn’t the best.  Eventually she met that man who would have been your father, were you actually born in this life.  Their only child, a boy, was stillborn.  Aurion Vaelarys died in the Disputed Lands with the Golden Company less than a year later attempting to build a better life for his wild Westerosi wife.”

“Where are we now?”  Jon blinked then added as he lightly caressed her still face.  Still his mother no matter what world he was in.  “ _When_ are we now?”

“Braavos.”  The Child supplied, having been instructed to answer any of the Prince’s questions.  “Two hundred and ninety-five years after Aegon’s Conquering of Westeros.  You’re technically only three-and-ten at the moment though with the power given by the deaths that sent you and your friend,” the Child looked back down at the happily exploring direwolf.  “You were aged up to account for it.  So long as you wait to be seen by those that might know you or might need to present yourself as the son of Lyanna Stark and Aurion Vaelarys until the new century no one will ever know.”

“What do you suggest for the next five years?”  Jon scowled, extremely displeased at the very idea of the delay.

The Child shrugged.  “You are the Promised Prince.  That’s for you alone to decide.  Set plans in place.  You have a lord’s education and the experience of being the lord commander of the Night’s Watch to draw on.  You are a warrior, not a general.  Perhaps fill some gaps in your education.  Run wild beyond the wall.  Until the new century begins, you cannot return to the Seven Kingdoms.  This is the will of the gods.”

“Right then.”  Jon blew out a frustrated breath.  At least he had a date to work towards.  Maybe he _would_ go beyond the wall.  Live as one of the Free Folk.  Though with Valyrian looks he was going to stand out worse there than he did as “the pretty crow.”  “Anything else?”

The Child handed over a pair of items: a piece of parchment and a leather-bound stack of parchment.

“Before you send Lady Lyanna to her final rest, you need to completely search the manse.”  The Child advised.  “Lest an opportunity be missed.”

Then with that oh-so-helpful bit of crypticness, the Child stepped back into the shadows and was no more, as if they had never _been_ in the first place.

Honestly, if it weren’t for Ghost and how _real_ everything was, he’d think he was indeed trapped in a fever dream despite dismissing it earlier.

And for much the same reason.

His imagination just _wasn’t_ good enough to come up with anything this detailed.

“Well, boy.”  He reached over and ruffled the fur over Ghost’s shoulder.  “Looks like we’re on our own.”

…

It went against every impulse and instinct ground in over the last eight years spent fighting the dead, but Jon nonetheless did as he was bid: exploring the manse he’d found himself within rather than moving immediately to build a pyre in the yard and send his mother – in any world, apparently – to her rest.

First, however, he found the kitchen and drew a large bucket of water, drinking his fill despite no longer as desperately thirsty as he’d been in the midst of a cocoon of dragonfire, then setting it on the floor for Ghost to do the same.

“Stubborn boy.”  Jon tsked at his most loyal friend and companion, stratching at one ear nearly as big as his hand when his direwolf lowered his massive head to drink.  “Couldn’t let me leave without you, could you?  No.”  Jon chuckled, relieved down to his bones even though he was aching inside for all that had been left behind.  “No, you couldn’t.”

His mourning would be deep and lasting for many nights to come, he knew, once he was able to sink into it.

For now, he had a task to complete, and with that in mind he inspected what was given him directly by the gods’ envoy before moving to search the – small, he now realized having traipsed through most of it – manse.

The simple parchment was a birth record, attested to and sealed by a healer in the Free City of Myr of the birth of one Jaerion Vaelarys, a son, to Lady Lyanna Stark and sired by Aurion Vaelarys, her lawful husband.

His mother, it seemed, in any world had a _type_.

Not that Jon could judge her, as he’d fallen into the honeyed trap of Valyrian looks himself…and now apparently possessed his own, though he’d yet to dare his reflection to confirm it.

From what he understood of the Child’s words, the actual Jaerion had been stillborn, Lyanna living the rest of her days without her son until the day she died, then the gods decided for whatever reason to pluck up a killer from his world and set him down in a new one, giving him the life that would have been Jaerion’s had he lived.

Including his inheritance.

It sickened Jon for long moments as he skimmed through the leather-bound booklet, what was a diary of sorts that she kept up until, if he had to guess based on the dates, the day of Jaerion’s birth.

Her weak chicken-scratch announcing his birth – a sad bit of delusion if there ever was one – on Mid-Year’s Day of 282 A.C. in Myr is the last entry he could find.

Reading it thoroughly would be sure to give him a better idea of what Westeros was like – at least up until she fled rather than marry Robert Baratheon, not that Jon could blame her even if Robert’s bastard son Gendry was a decent sort – from her perspective.

But any perspective or news he didn’t have to troll through a tavern or inn’s common room for was good, especially since he’d be willing to bet that would be a lot harder to accomplish now as a _male omega_ in this world than it had been as a man grown in his last with a fearsome reputation to back it up.

Fuck.

He realized as he thought on said reputation and went to clasp the hilt of Longclaw.

At the top of this list to find as soon as possible was a damn sword.

He wasn’t about to be without one at all and definitely wouldn’t be heading north of the Wall without one of Valyrian steel.

There was little out of the ordinary to be found in the more public rooms of the small manse as he went about his search as efficiently as possible.  Pottery dishes and a cast-iron cook pot in the kitchen.  A tapestry loom in the main room by the hearth.  No surprises.

Definitely not anything worth waiting to send Lyanna to rest over.

Then he entered the last room other than the wash room that had been just as ordinary – well, so he assumed for one in the Free Cities anyway – his mother’s bedroom where she was still laying in deathly repose, her lips tinged blue and her skin nearly translucent.

Now that he’d seen her for himself, he could see – objectively, it _was_ his damn mother no matter whether in this world or another – what could have driven a married man to set aside his wife in her favor and why all of Westeros’s noble houses had been so quick to believe a man would wish to kidnap her.

Lyanna Stark was a true northern beauty.

From her ink-black hair with their loose curls to her snow-pale skin she was every bit as lovely as stories had always had her.

But if he wished to remember her _this_ way: at peace in her rightful rest; he’d best get to work.

There was a lot more to search through in Lyanna’s bed chamber, including after long moments of debate, the underside of her bed where he found a casket filled with the square iron coins he remembered Arya telling him about regarding her time in Braavos, the amount likely the sum of coinage-on-hand Lyanna used to purchase necessities like food at market in the absence of any servants.

Setting the casket of coins aside, Jon continued to search through her things, finding another locking casket though this one was much finer than the simple iron-banded oak of the other in carved goldenheart wood with angular designs that were appealing to the eye and copper inlays.  Inside was what amounted to an lifetime of Lady’s jewels, likely gifts from her late husband save for one or two that might have come with her from Winterfell and not been sold to sustain her before she fell in love with her Valyrian.  All of it was silver except for a single upper-arm cuff (on a woman at least) of Valyrian steel, and all set with either what he recognized from Lady Stark’s jewels as either diamonds or amethysts or a combination of both.

Though he couldn’t think of what use he would get from keeping a lady’s jewels, he didn’t know that he’d manage to part with them either barring extreme need.

They were his mother’s, something of hers that he could see and touch and remember who he was when so much else of his and what made him _him_ had been taken away from him time and time again, now to the point that when he finally turned from examining the workmanship on the Valyrian steel cuff he was startled at what he saw in Lyanna’s polished-silver mirror mounted over her clothes chest.

Reaching up with one hand, watching with wide eyes as the figure in the mirror did the same, he grasped hold of the trailing tail of hair from behind him and pulled it around, blinking at the pure white-silver of them that shamed even Daenerys’s infamous silver locks.  His hair wasn’t curly anymore, but straight if just as full and thick.  Letting go of that tangible proof of what the gods had done with him, he leaned forward and braced his hands on the cedar clothing chest, heart in his throat as he stared unblinking into the mirror.

His face was fine featured, far more than even he’d been as “the pretty crow,” allowing him to also understand what had led his mother to running away with his father in his first life if Rhaegar had looked anything like the man in Jon’s mirror.

His cheekbones were high and sharp enough to almost use as the edge of a blade, his cheeks smooth, his jaw fine-carved as was his nose with a strong brow that didn’t overhang his eyes.

Eyes of a rich bright purple to rival any Targaryen.

Fuck him, they’d really done it.

The gods had turned him from the image of a Northman, of a Stark, into a scion of Old Valyria.

At least he’d always been pale, so that wasn’t a shock, though he could’ve done without the almost luminescent quality his skin had taken on.

As if he wasn’t pretty _enough_ without his skin doing that.

Yeah, he definitely needed to get his hands on a sword.

No matter how he carried himself, looking like he did now _someone_ was going to be willing to try it.

And Jon knew better than most just what sort of beasts dwelled in the hearts of men.

A scraping sound drew him from staring at himself – and trying to come to terms with just what it was he saw – and he turned to find Ghost pawing at a large chest almost completely hidden behind a tapestry in the corner.

Jon chuckled glad he could still find _some_ entertainment in things even if he was having to keep a firm stranglehold on most of his emotions lest he break down into a sobbing mess for the next sennight.

“Alright boy,” Jon moved over to the massive direwolf’s side, nudging him away.  “Let’s see what you’ve got there.”

Pulling the chest out into the light, he dusted off the top with a few swipes of his hand, tilting his head this way and that before he realized it wasn’t a trick of the light or discoloration.

He’d only seen shields and spear shafts made of it before, but he knew ironwood when he saw it.

Engraved into the top of the ironwood chest – a thing a long way from home in Ironwrath on the Wolfswood – was a figure of a dragon in a circle, wings outstretched behind it, the mouth biting down onto the spike of the tail.

An ouroboros, he thought it was called, most likely the sigil of Aurion Vaelarys’s house.

Jon lifted the heavy lid, allowing the torchlight of the room to fall onto the contents.

And promptly gasped as his heart once more lodged itself firmly in his throat at what he saw.

…

Save for a rolled-up parchment resting in the center of the open chest, everywhere else Jon’s eyes fell inside it hit upon running rivers of gleaming black, rippling grey, and shimmering silver.

Valyrian steel.

Lyanna Stark had a chest filled with forged Valyrian steel.

Picking up the scroll, he unwound it and made quick work of deciphering it as a death-notice sent by the quartermaster of the Golden Company appraising their member’s wife of his death, the manner of it (an arrow through the eye, at least it was quick), and that his belongings were cataloged and sent along with Aurion’s due pay and death benefit.

Given the amount written on the scroll, he was no longer surprised at the quality of the manse.

Aurion Vaelarys must have served with the Golden Company for several years and been a high officer for his widow to be due such a sum.  That he’d chosen to make his way with them was likely the only reason she’d received anything at all, let alone the contents of the chest that were worth ten times the gold they’d given her.  Any sellswords less honorable and bound to their word than the Golden Company would have taken such treasure for their own.

Tucking the death-notice in with the birth register and diary, Jon started lifting pieces out of the chest, brows rising higher and shock deepening with every piece.

Mostly trying to figure out how’d they’d stayed a secret when many lords of Westeros would pay a king’s ransom for enough Valyrian steel to forge a house sword, let alone what Jon had now in his hands.

An entire set of scale-mail armor fashioned for a man of Valyrian lines: a hooded hauberk with chausses of the maille itself, then breastplate, greaves, and vambraces of solid Valyrian steel etched in a scale pattern was at the top; explaining neatly the manner of Aurion’s death – there wasn’t another vulnerable point to be found on a man thusly attired.

Under the set of armor was Aurion’s weapons, Jon once more staggered at what it was possible to hide from common knowledge when you were a sea apart.

First came a large men’s recurve bow carved of what he thought – he’d only seen it once and those were much smaller examples littering the floor of the Dragonpit – was dragonbone.  Wrapped around the body of the bow which was carved in flowing lines that reminded him of flames, was a thin wire of Valyrian steel.  He couldn’t even imagine the strength it would take to draw such a weapon when he, unable to help himself, could barely string it.

A problem for another day, as estimations of the reach and strength of an arrow shot from it were dancing in his head.

Beneath the bow was a sheathed sword, one that at this point he knew had to be Valyrian steel and solved his problem regarding venturing beyond the Wall, and a buckler shield etched with the same dragon ouroboros as the chest in which it resided, confirming his thought that it was the sigil of the Vaelarys.

The buckler joined the armor and bow, Jon quickly diverting his attention back to the sword.

Its sheath was an expertly tooled leather with metal work in yet-more wire-thin Valyrian steel resembling flames and the buckle on the sword belt was more of the same with a motif of the Vaelarys sigil.

On the hilt were Valyrian runes that took him a few moments to translate, Jon having much more use up until Daenerys arrived in Westeros for common tongue and even the Old Tongue of the North than his High Valyrian lessons – and his accent proved it when he’d spoken with it to Dany – but he made them out regardless.

 _Deathdealer_ , the runes named the sword, and rarely had Jon found a thing so very apt.

The pommel was a – no surprise – dragon’s head with rare Old Valyrian diamonds in their infamous indigo-purple coloring, the sort of thing a bastard of the North could only hear about in tales and never in his life lay eyes upon.

Pulling Deathdealer free of its sheath, he shook his head at the rippling blade that told the story of its origins and spun it in hand.

Its weight and balance was perfect, another bastard sword as the legendary Blackfyre was said to be.

In this, Jon could see the work of the gods.

Dealing death to his enemies was what Jon was better at than anything else, there couldn’t be a more appropriate ancestral sword for him to just _happen_ to inherit if they’d dropped Ice itself down on his head.

Unwilling to go unarmed another moment, feeling almost naked without Longclaw, Jon wrapped the black leather sword belt over his – indigo silk, he thought – tunic and trousers, the slight rasp of the buckle engaging not unlike that of the bolt of his fate slamming home.

He was here.

This was real.

And by all the gods old and new, he was going to have to figure out how to live with it.


	2. Chapter 2

** Winter’s Wolf **

**Chapter Two: The Real North**

Aurion’s chest hadn’t only contained his armor and weaponry.

At the bottom of it he’d also located a few other things of note: a small casket of more ironwood containing yet more relics of Old Valyria including a heavy men’s ring of Valyrian steel with an indigo Valyrian diamond carved in an approximation of a dragon egg’s shape and scales and a slender circlet of yet more Valyrian steel engraved with a series of dragons, each biting the tail of the one before it all around the circlet, with another dragon’s egg carved indigo-purple diamond set to mark the center of the royal jewelry.

Dragonlords.

It seemed there was more to that title than the ability to ride a dragon after all.

At the very bottom wrapped in a large piece of indigo silk embroidered with real-silver thread in the ouroboros dragon sigil, however, was where Jon found the real treasure that his mother had hidden away in this chest under the obvious ones of Valyrian steel.

The first of which was a handwritten account of the Doom of Valyria by who in this world would have been his direct ancestor born to their family in the days of the Freehold and also included stories, tales, and lore from before the Doom.

An impressive find indeed, he knew an Imp who would pay a fortune for such a thing.

But it was what he found last of all that made the Child’s warning make sense.

For side-by-side with the collection of lore was what to anyone else would seem a pretty rock, cold to the touch.

It blazed with heat to Jon’s.

A dragon egg.

His family had survived the doom with what seemed like the armor and weapons their ancestor had worn at the time and a single dragon egg.

It was a beautiful thing.

Dany hadn’t been exaggerating when she described them for Jon one night after they’d met and things hadn’t been as fraught as they were in the early days of their acquaintance.

And it also made all the indigo make sense, from the color of his clothes to the Valyrian diamonds set in Aurion’s ring and circlet and sword he’d inherited.

The egg was a rich version of the shade that was not-quite true purple but definitely not blue either, with rivers of silver running through the rich coloration and flecks of bright blue that reminded him of Viserion’s ice-flame.

Four hundred years – give or take – Aurion and his family had protected this egg.

And now it’d found its way into the hands of the only living person in the Known World who knew how to hatch it.

Thanks to the Child keeping him from following his immediate instincts, the biggest problem of hatching the egg was already taken care of.

Now all he had to do was build a pyre.

…

As it turned out, building a pyre on the outskirts of Braavos was a much more difficult challenge thanks to the Braavosi severe lack of timberlands than it was in the North, forcing Jon to get creative.

Part of him regretted that he’d never met his mother, her fate it seemed was to die on the day he was born – figuratively speaking regarding the latest circumstances – especially as he now was breaking her furniture apart in order to give her what could be seen as a burial in the old way.

He didn’t know how the Braavosi carried out burials.

Whether they interred their dead in crypts like at Winterfell or returned them to the ground like in most of the Seven Kingdoms or sent them out to sea like the Ironborn.

Any way you looked at it, he wasn’t conforming to their ways.

He only hoped it didn’t cause him more trouble than he needed when the flames danced into the sky but at least as the evening turned to night he wouldn’t have to worry about being stopped before he could even begin in the wide courtyard of Lyanna’s manse that was of a size with the godswood at Winterfell though lacking weirwoods let alone a heart-tree.

It took Lyanna’s trestle table, her bedstead, all her decorative tables, and the rushes from her main room and kitchen plus what little firewood and tinder there was to be found but eventually he was able to lay down a length of pure white silk atop of the pyre to wait for her.

His mother was already dressed in a nightshift that went to her dainty feet in a plain white linen.

Jon wrapped her in another treasure he found in her rooms: her Stark maiden’s cloak with the direwolf roaring out a challenge to any who would dare take it from her without her consent and bordered in freshwater pearls on all the edges with white wolf’s fur lining the collar.

He couldn’t return her to Winterfell alive, but he could send her off as the daughter of the North that she was and had always been before sending her ashes to her – their, still he supposed – family.

Perhaps they will give her another statue in the crypts with stone direwolf guards.

Perhaps not.

Jon wasn’t aware, yet, of what her successful runaway had done to history this time beyond that it wasn’t likely to be blamed on a man she was never involved with in any manner.

What Braavos lacked in firewood it had in oil, Jon able to soak the pyre on his he laid his mother’s body thoroughly before he sucked in a breath and rested Aurion’s dragon egg within Lyanna’s clasped hands over her belly, then slashed open his unblemished off-hand with the Valyrian steel dagger with its dragonbone hilt (in the shape of a direwolf with diamond eyes, because of course it was) he’d found under her pillow when he’d moved her.

Covering the egg with its near-burning heat with his blood, he backed away from the pyre.

He’d been among the Free Folk long enough and ordered enough mass cremations that he no longer saw a need to say words over the dead but here, for her, he could only think of one thing to say as he fled a torch aloft with Ghost seated beside him just out of range of the pyre.

“May she rest in peace.”  He murmured, then lowered the torch and as the flames licked up over the oil-soaked wood and tinder he fell to his knees.

It wasn’t for her as such.

He’d never known her in any world no matter how much he’d wanted to.

No, his tears were for all he’d left behind.

All who would fight and die and burn in a world torn to pieces by a woman he’d loved more than he’d thought possible after Ygritte’s death and another he’d hated more than anything in the world, even the Night King.

His only hope for his remaining family: Sansa and Arya and Bran, was that their sensibility would see them through and keep them safe as he could not.

Sansa was right in the end.

He couldn’t protect her.

And he would have to live with that grief, that _failure_ , for all his days until the gods at last deigned to let him rest.

…

Daenerys had never told him how long it took for her dragons to hatch.

All Jorah would say on the subject was that they stood vigil over the Khal’s pyre through the night only for the dawn to reveal and alive Daenerys cradling three dragon hatchlings kneeling among the ash of Drogo and the maegi who cursed him and Dany.

So Jon stood his vigil with Ghost resting at his side – and good for him, they both were beyond exhaustion at this point – and waited while he mired himself in grief so penetrating and all-consuming he couldn’t have named even one of the souls he mourned as he watched the flames dance.

Little did he knew the sight he made: a dragonlord of Old with a massive wolf at his side, firelight from his mother’s pyre highlighting his fine features and turning his silver-white hair the color of living flame.

The Braavosi were a respectful people and the fierce Dragon’s Widow had been well-respected and well-liked.

That she had a son was surprising but undeniable as the light played over his dragonlord’s face with a wolf of her homeland at his side.

There would be no problems from them and they left him to his vigil as word spread through the city that the Dragon’s Widow had perished and her son had come to send her to her rest in extravagant fashion as during some times of year – though this was summer still, making firewood not at such a premium – good fuel for Braavosi fires could cost nearly their weight in silver during the coldest winters as it had to be imported from Lorath and Norvos and Westeros.

Then just before dawn peaked over the horizon in the darkest hour of the night, a red star streaked over head, and a soft _crack_ was heard by a carefully listening – even in mired in mourning – Jon and he stepped forward over the now low-burning flames, not feeling the heat at all, to the small mound of ash that was all that was left of his mother and the egg laying atop it.

As he crouched alone among the ash and coals, remnants of tears still dripping down his face and his off-hand pulling and twinging under the simple cotton strip he’d used for bandaging, another soft crack came and the egg shook in its ashy cradle.

A soft, seeking cry came from inside, much quieter and less ear-piercing than the fearsome noise Dany’s children made, and Jon soothed and encouraged it the same as he’d done for Ghost as an orphaned pup.

“Shh, shh, little one.”  Jon found himself unbearable glad that while everything else about his person may have changed by the will of the gods, his voice was still the same.  “I’m here.  You’re safe.  Your…” Jon thought a moment, turning back to look at the massive form of Ghost who’d woken and risen at the first cry of their new responsibility hatching, then decided.  “Your brother is here as well.  He’ll teach you to run and hunt and play.  Together we’ll fly and soar over the clouds.  Come, little one.”  He smiled down at the new cracks and crevices in the beautiful egg.  “We want to meet you.”

Jon always had had a soft spot for little ones.

He supposed a dragon hatchling was no different than orphaned direwolf pups or children or babies left to be taken by the Others.

As if taking his cue from his friend, Ghost lifted his head and let out an echoing howl that reverberated over the flatlands around Lyanna’s manse, over the low hills, and even into the edges of Braavos itself.

With a final quake, the egg shattered into little more than indigo-dust, and the dragon within gave a victorious cry.

Reaching out, Jon lifted the small creature that was no larger than a barn cat up into his cupped hands, still crooning nonsense under his breath at it nuzzled at him and chirped.

It was a beautiful creature, perhaps his own bias showing but far more lovely than even Viserion had been.  Jon didn’t consider it his child.  He wasn’t given to such flights of fancy or poetry as Dany had been.  But it was his charge and responsibility, his friend much as Ghost had been from the moment he found the albino direwolf where he had wandered – or been driven – away from the rest of his litter.

The hatchling’s scales and wings when it spread them with a chirping roar were the deep purple with hints of blue of its indigo egg, silver speckling its scales and belly and coloring its horns and spikes and teeth.

And its eyes…its eyes were the same blue-fire of Viserion’s when he’d been risen as an Other by the Night King.

“Hello there.”  Jon scratched the little hatchling that burned with an inner heat just like its egg had done behind one of its horn spikes, much like he would behind Ghost’s ear.  “Aren’t you a beauty?”

With careful hands, he set the hatchling on his shoulder, that fierce intelligence he remembered Rhaegal displaying kicking in as it dug its little claws – still sharp even just-hatched but not as razored and dangerous as they would become – into the silk of his tunic as he took out the simple pottery urn he’d found in the kitchen and with gentle hands took the combination of his mother’s ash and that of the dragon’s egg and poured it bit by bit into the urn.

He would send it on to Winterfell, along with the urn containing her husband’s ash that he’d found among her effects.

What his uncle – or uncles, who knew? – did with them from there was up to them.

A note would have to be sent along with them, just one of a dozen or more duties needing done to tie up his mother’s affairs before he could take his leave of Braavos.

Winter was coming.

And every Free Folk life he could save and every Other with the power to rise up wights he could kill would make its mark on the death toll that would come with the white winds.

A hundred-thousand souls had died at Hardhome, only ten thousand escaping.

That was only _half_ or less of the people Mance Rayder had gathered under his banner as the King Beyond the Wall.

Jon didn’t have the time to do the same or try to supplant Mance’s place among them.

But he would do what he could to try and keep this world from following the path of the other, no matter how different things were on the surface.

When it came to the army of the dead, it won’t matter whose arse in seated on the Iron Throne or what sort of strangness these “dynamics” were.

They were all conscripts to the Night King’s army to the Others.

Meat to be slaughtered.

Every life he could save now was one he wouldn’t have to fight later, every Other he could kill was one less with the power to bolster the Night King’s army.

With being bound by the gods to stay out of the Seven Kingdoms for the next five years, it would have to be enough.

He _hoped_ it would be enough.

Otherwise…what was the point of sending him here at all?

…

Ghost took to the hatchling with greater warmth than the direwolf ever had Dany’s dragons, even Rhaegal.

It took all of one meal shared between the two – raw lamb’s meat for Ghost and pieces of the same cooked and plucked out of Jon’s simple stew – for them to make friends, all three of them snuggled together on the woven rug in Lyanna’s main room for a nap, Jon tucked into Ghost’s side and the hatchling settling into the joint curve of Jon’s and Ghost’s necks.

They were all exhausted beyond measure and only strength of will had gotten them through the meal Jon had had the forethought to set low over the coals of the kitchen fire before lighting Lyanna’s pyre.

Dragons ate only cooked meat and direwolves preferred raw – though Ghost was an infamous mooch who would accept food of all kinds from giving hands – but he thought the hatchling would need time and practice before it could do its own meat preparation.

That was fine.

Jon would simply feed it from his own plate until it learned.

He knew it needed a name, it was one of the first thoughts to bother him when they’d woken up around midday from their deep, restful sleep.

Anything as intelligent as Ghost or a dragon needed a name.

Still, it would have to wait for a time, other duties called.

Using parchment and ink and sealing wax found in the main room, Jon wrote his missive to Winterfell that would accompany Lyanna and Aurion’s remains then packed away the urns in the goldenheart wood chest that had previously contained her jewelry, moving the gems to join Aurion’s in the smaller ironwood chest with the Vaelarys circlet he would never put upon his head if he had a choice in the matter.

Given how much the gods liked to fuck with him, he wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t and ended up wearing the thing for one reason or another before his duty was done.

He wrapped the chest in what he thought must be Aurion’s wedding cloak from when he took Lyanna to bride with its rich indigo coloring and the silver embroidery of the dragon ouroboros, tying it tightly with cords and sealing them with wax then pressing the two signet seals he’d discovered into it.

One was simple steel with the design of a direwolf’s head holding a rose, the other more Valyrian steel with the dragon ouroboros.

Say what you liked about Aurion’s family (Jon couldn’t bring himself to call them _his_ family, no matter what form he’d been given in this world by the gods) at least they were consistent.

He found a small horsecart in the stableyard of the manse, though he dressed himself in the bulk of the contents of the ironwood chest he hauled the empty thing into it anyway along with the wrapped bundle to be sent to Winterfell, unable for some reason to leave it behind to be sold with the manse.  He hitched the workhorse to the cart and saddled the fine bay mare though he had to let down the stirrup straps.  Apparently a Valyrian was taller than a Northman – or at least Jon – and much taller than Lyanna Stark.  Into the saddlebags went the coin casket with the important papers and books and scrolls he’d found and knew he’d want, as well as the jewel chest.

Slung over his chest and armor went a simple leather satchel that would hold the hatchling close, the dragonbone bow – strung, which was a bitch even if he wasn’t tired – over his back with Deathdealer at one hip and Lyanna’s dagger the other, the buckler shield hung over the saddle horn but within easy reach to grab if need be.

Walking both horses out of the manse, Jon turned to look back at the place his mother had lived for a decade or more, finding himself both pleased that she’d not died in childbed in Dorne but also deeply saddened that she’d once more escaped Robert Baratheon only to thousands of leagues away from her family.

Shaking off the moment of sentimentality, Jon climbed into the saddle.

He had business in Braavos to see through and Others to kill.

…

Braavos was like no other city Jon had ever seen – not that he’d seen all that many.

It pulsed with life but thrived by boats and barges and ships.

A few of the iron coins from Lyanna’s chest had a polebarge taking him and his cargo over the canals to an inn nearest the Iron Bank which for more coin would store the cart and its contents safely, as well as the two horses.

More than one Braavosi looked at the pair he and Ghost made askance, the giant albino wolf walking tame as he pleased at the side of a tall warrior in dark steel armor, his black concealing cloak – the first real purchase he’d made in sometime even before being sent into a new life altogether – lending him a menacing air.

He’d unstrung the dragonbone bow and left it locked in his room at the inn – the largest they had, usually for a group of travelers but the only one big enough for Ghost – along with the chest of gems.

Under his arm he carried the coin chest with its important documents as he climbed the steps to the Iron Bank of Braavos.

From his discussions with Ser Davos and Arya, he knew he’d have to be cautious here but if they could be swayed towards helpfulness they would be his best avenue for selling Lyanna’s manse and conducting business with the Free Cities, including finding passage to Skagos as that was likely his best bet for finding a smuggler willing to take him beyond the wall.

At least he was walking in with a direwolf at his side.

It should get him seen faster than most for the sake of novelty if nothing else.

Coming to a stop before the long marble petitioner counter in the foyer of the Iron Bank, being eyed with nothing less than shock and suspicion given his attire and company – Ghost as unbothered and quiet as ever – he handed over the note he’d written and stamped with the two sigils he’d found and waited.

He’d written it in High Valyrian, the same as the missive to Winterfell, and though _being_ Valyrian would win him no favors with the Iron Bank or Braavos as a whole, it at least marked him as an educated man.

Male omega.

Whatever.

The clerk bustled away, eyes wide and the note clenched in one hand.

Less than a minute passed and a guard was returning, giving him – and Ghost – a respectful nod.

“Keyholder Nestoris will see you.”  He announced then led the way into the bank proper.

It wasn’t the cavernous room with green marble floors that Davos had described that he was led to but that was just fine.  His business with the bank – this time at any rate – wasn’t that of wars and successions.  Rather, it was just that: simple business, that the Iron Bank could be a useful if moderately expensive conduit towards completing, nothing more and nothing less.

Ghost explored the large room that was about a third of the size of Winterfell’s great hall, sniffing here and there while his hatchling remained quiet and sleeping off its lunch in its satchel-sling to the beat of Jon’s heart.

Jon wasn’t Stannis and he wasn’t nearly as impatient or self-important, taking the initiative to sit on the simple stone bench before the short table with only a single marble chair – nearly a throne – behind it.

He was tired, even with being able to sleep the early morning hours away, his exhaustion running soul-deep.

He wasn’t about to bother with a display of pride by remaining standing while he waited for this Keyholder Nestoris, with which Ghost seemed to agree, his friend coming over to flop down on the cool marble of the floor at Jon’s feet, between the man and the marble table and taking up the entire free space in the process.

A fact that when less than a handful of minutes later the Keyholder arrived, the skinny man with his thinning hair was quick to note though with no more surprise showing than a quick blink of his dark eyes.

“Lord Vaelarys.”  Keyholder Nestoris greeted him.  “I am Keyholder Tycho Nestoris.  Welcome to the Iron Bank.  My clerk tells me you wish to conduct business pertaining to your inheritance of your parents’ estate and their holdings with the Iron Bank.”

“Yes.”  Jon nodded firmly lifting the hood of his cloak and showing his Valyrian traits for the first time inside the city bounds of Braavos.  Leaning over Ghost, he set the coin chest on the table between them, opening it and passing over the documents he knew would be required.  His education at Winterfell and time as both the Steward to Jeor Mormont and Lord Commander, let alone as King of the North had more than adequately prepared him for straightforward transactions.

It was politics that always fucked him over.

“My mother died in her sleep yesterday, I carried out her cremation this morning.”  He continued, then showed Nestoris the dragon’s egg ring on his hand and the pair of sigil seals.  “I wish to conclude my duties to my parents efficiently before taking my leave of Essos.”

If the Braavosi was pleased to learn that another Valyrian would be leaving Essos, he gave no sign of it as he inspected the documents and proofs given by the dragonseed before him as Jon entertained himself by constantly drawing attention to Ghost by petting and scratching at the head and shoulders of the white direwolf.

“May I ask,” Tycho finally asked the question that had brought him so promptly to conduct business with a _Valyrian_.  “Is that…?”

“His name is Ghost.”  Jon held in a smirk.  “A direwolf from the far north of Westeros beyond the Wall.  The sigil of my mother’s house.”

“Yes.”  Tycho sighed, admitting defeat.  Everything was in order.  There was no legal method to bar the Valyrian from claiming his family’s estate and holdings within the Bank, no matter how tempting such a thing was to the more… _long-memoried_ keyholders of their institution.  “Yes, that he is.  As it stands, your inheritance includes all the personal belongings of both Lord Aurion Vaelarys and Lady Lyanna Stark, a manse on the edge of Braavos, and two accounts – that of the Vaelarys family itself and a personal vault held jointly between the Lord and Lady.  All told, initial tallies regarding the manse and vaults amounts to fifteen-thousand gold dragons in Westerosi currency.”

Jon arched his brows.

That was enough money for a man in Westeros to live comfortably for all his life and raise a large and prosperous family besides.

It seemed when Aurion set out to provide a better life for his wife, he didn’t stint in the doing.

“I would like the manse sold, which I am told the Iron Bank can arrange, as well as a chest containing the remains of my parents shipped under guard to Winterfell and entrusted to the Lord of House Stark for interment.”  Jon rattled off, handing over his written instructions for both endeavors.  All signed and sealed by “Jaerion” Vaelarys using the ouroboros sigil.  “I need passage to Skagos for myself and my companion,” he tilted his head towards a calmly watching Ghost.  “When the Bank’s agents collect the chest containing my family’s remains, there is an ironwood chest with it.  I would like the Iron Bank to contract with a smith of Qohor to fill it with as many Valyrian steel broadheads – both three-and-four sided – as what remains of my inheritance can afford, including the cost of storage and shipping under guard when I call for it in approximately five years to be sent on to meet me at Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.”

He handed over the rest of the instructions, Nestoris’s brows lifting with each subsequent instruction.

“Pardon, my lord Jaerion, but am I to take from this that you intend to venture into the far north of Westeros?”

“Where I venture is my own affair.”  Jon rebuffed him.  “My coin and the utmost discretion regarding my affairs is yours.  Can it be done?”

“Of course.”  Tycho assured him with a nod of his head.  If a Valyrian wished to beggar himself for arrowheads, that wasn’t the Bank’s affair.  If he wished to suicide himself beyond the Wall, that wasn’t the Bank’s affair.  Profit was the Bank’s affair and contracting with a Qohorik smith for Jaerion Vaelarys plus shipping, storage, and guard costs would all be profitable indeed.  “It shall be done and the Iron Bank shall await your raven for returning your chest and its contents to your hands.”

“Good.”  Jon rose, nodded once, then rose and collected the coin chest – which was what he’d have to live on and supply himself with for his trip – and the documents then turned and walked away, leaving the Iron Bank to get on with their business than that his own was concluded.

His hatchling would wake from its nap soon and would be hungry.

He’d like to be safe within the confines of his inn room before that, especially as he was certain the Iron Bank would be most efficient regarding collecting both chests.

He could handle selling the horses with their cart and tack to an ostler without the help of the Bank.

Or having to pay them their fee.

…

He made it back to the inn in time to head-off his hatchling’s hunger cries which was good.

Dragons gave a whole new meaning to ill-tempered when they were flying on an empty stomach.

Jon had been right in the end.

He’d no more fed his hatchling and watched it toddle around shakily and nuzzle into Ghost to nap some more than a knock came on the door, one of the inn’s maids alerting him that a team from the Bank had arrived and were asking after him in the common room.

At least they didn’t march right up to his room.

With his concealing cloak back in place, he showed the team to the chests, pointing out which was to be sent to Winterfell and which was to be used for his ongoing business with the Bank.

That done, all he had to do now was wait, the leader of the team letting him know that the Bank would send a missive when they’d located an appropriate vessel and arranged passage over the Narrow Sea.

In the meantime, he had supplies to collect and a handful of books and tomes selected from Lyanna’s slim selection to review, most of them in High Valyrian and regarding a single subject: Valyria.

Between feeds of his companions and his own need to rest and recover and mourn, he ventured out into the colorful markets, collecting reindeer fur in one stall that he took along with a fine – and soft – wool to a seamstress to have garments made to his measurements and exact specifications.  Boots had to be made special at a cobbler, the Braavosi never having had a need for a pair lined in reindeer fur.  But they would save his toes from the nip of the icy far north on cold nights, much like gloves would have his fingers, and outer clothes the rest of him.

A large, well-made pack of oiled leather would hold his coin and books and supplies and keep them from getting wet or ruined by snowmelt.

His visit to a weaponsmith had him adding a quiver of oiled leather lined with white rabbit fur to his armament and a fletcher supplied a selection of steel-headed arrows for hunting.

He would get his dragonglass arrowheads on Skagos to hold him over until he returned from beyond the wall and Nestoris sent him his Valyrian steel ones he’d commissioned.

Dragonglass got the job done well enough, it held a fine edge the was sharper than most steel, but it was brittle.

Easily shattered.

Valyrian steel was better in every instance to anything else around, but lacking ready access to arrowheads made of it, dragonglass was better for hunting Others and wights than the steel broadheads he’d use for regular hunting.

He couldn’t rely on Ghost to do _all_ the work after all, not if he wanted the direwolf to also help teach the hatchling the difference between hunting prey and hunting people, and to only attack people in battle or when ordered, how to distinguish between friend and foe, and so on.

Ghost had always somehow _known_.

Dany’s children hadn’t, unless they sensed Valyrian blood, but Jon needed his hatchling to be more like Ghost and less like Drogon, Rhaegal, and Viserion.

Jon had no intention of once more saving a world from falling to ice, only for it to fall to his hatchling's dragonfire.

Then about a fortnight after his business concluded with the Bank and he and his companions – including a recently named Saerax – were growing restive with confinement, a note came from the Iron Bank.

They’d gotten him passage on a ship due to leave the next day.

Jon was finally going home.

To the North.

The _real_ North.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First look at the situation in the Seven Kingdoms in Jon's new world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter should start to answer some of the questions readers have had about how the A/B/O divergence in Jon's new world has affected events, relationships, and the political landscape in the Seven Kingdoms.
> 
> This by no means in an all-in-one answer to a lot of those things but it is a start from a non-Jon perspective of how things currently sit, at least partially, in the Seven Kingdoms at the time he goes beyond the Wall.

** Winter’s Wolf **

**Chapter Three: Whispers from the Grave**

_My Lord Stark,_

_If you have received this then the Iron Bank was as good as their reputation and have successfully delivered this message and all that accompanies it to Winterfell._

_My name is Jaerion Vaelarys, and I am the trueborn son of Lord Aurion Vaelarys and his lawful mate and wife, Lady Lyanna Stark of Winterfell._

_I was not told much over the years about the circumstances of my mother’s leaving Westeros and how she came to be married to my father but this much I do know: they met and wed in Qohor, exchanging cloaks by Westerosi custom, and my father died before I saw my third nameday._

_My mother lived in a manse on the outskirts of Braavos since before my father’s death and yesterday passed peacefully in her sleep of no cause I can see besides heartache._

_Realizing that this news is most unwelcome, I have included proofs of my tale, including my mother’s diary which she kept up until the moment of my birth, her seal, and an authentication of my birth status by the Iron Bank._

_My father’s family lost their estate in the aftermath of the Doom and my mother was of the North._

_If my lord could find the compassion, it would allow my heart to rest easy if their ashes were interred at the crypts my mother told me of that lay below Winterfell._

_My mother was of the North.  She should rest at peace in her homeland and not on foreign shores.  If I know anything about the devotion the men of my father’s people are capable of, he would wish to be with her._

_My family’s tradition is one of the pyre.  I hope interring ashes rather than bones is not overly onerous._

_By the time this missive reaches you, I will have taken my leave from Braavos to travel._

_It is my hope that should I ever visit the North I might meet the other half of my family though if that would be unwelcome I shall not stay._

_May the old gods smile upon you and your house._

_Jaerion Vaelarys_

…

Brandon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, looked up from the missive written in High Valyrian that his Maester, Luwin, had had to help him decipher.

“Send a raven to my brothers.”  He ordered, looking over at the seeming-innocuous package that had been contained in the same crate as the pouch with the missive and seal.  “The fastest we have.  For the interment of our sister and her husband within the Winterfell crypts.”

“At once, my lord.”  Luwin nodded crisply and turned to go, only to pause at the next words spoken by his lord.

“Luwin, what do you know of House Vaelarys?”

“Nothing, my lord.”  He answered honestly.  “Though it sounds Valryian we have little in the way here of lore on that race from before Aegon’s Conquering.”

“Thank you, Luwin.  That’ll be all.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Left to his own thoughts – and grim they were at that – Brandon brooded over the letter before taking it and striding from his study were the crate and its contents had been delivered by a Braavosi guard who’d not left until Brandon had affixed his seal to a manifest, providing proof that it had been delivered as promised.

His wife might have grown colder than a northern winter over the years – _that_ had been one of his father’s twin blunders allowing his ambitions to overwrite his sense if there ever was one – as Brandon proved as wild as ever whilst refusing to give her his mating mark but she would speak to him anyway.

Some stuck-up southron beta girl was never what he wanted.

He was an Alpha of the North, son of a proud lineage eight thousand years old.  Over his dead _body_ would he mate the bitch he’d been forced by his father to marry.  She could have his name – for all the good it had done her, shut away in the north far from court politics and her rule-loving southron gods – and as many children as it took for him to gain a lawful heir and spare but he would never give her himself.  If he couldn’t have a proud and wild northern mate, he’d have none at all.

Catelyn had never forgiven him for it.

He’d never forgiven her for trapping him with her southron ideas of marriage superseding mateship so as far as he was concerned they were even.

Theirs was a cold, unhappy marriage with the only joy to it coming from their two sons and two daughters.

His father had never understood his children.

Brandon given away to a southron bitch.

Lyanna promised to another southerner that repulsed her so badly she ran away – all the way to Essos apparently – to escape him.

Benjen, who wanted nothing of marriage after seeing the muck of it between Brandon and Catelyn.

Of them all, only Ned had been lucky when it came down to it, finding and mating his beautiful Ashara Dayne, one of the loveliest omegas of her generation, before their father could fuck it all up for him.

When their father died, Brandon gave Ned lordship over Moat Cailin so that his mate wouldn’t have to suffer Catelyn’s icy civility any longer, and such was his brother’s devotion to his violet-eyed beauty that during the rebuilding of the ancient fortress that had never fallen to attack from the south he’d even built her a small sept for her to practice her faith within.

Another thing Catelyn used as a strike against him in the cold war their marriage had become.

She’d always been a fool.

If she wanted devotion she should have ran off and mated her friend Littlefinger when she had the chance.

That Brandon wasn’t willing to duel over her honor should have been all the hint she needed that she’d have no love from him.

Silly thing that she was, Catelyn had looked at his handsome face and fine form and decided he was her one and only love.

That hadn’t lasted much longer than the wedding night.

Still, she was trapped by her duty as his lawful wife and he was trapped to her by a covenant in place since the rule of Jaehaerys I enforcing acknowledgement of marriage or mateship carried out according to the laws of one of the Seven Kingdoms being binding in _all_ of the Seven Kingdoms.

At least he’d not promised fidelity under the cold and judging eyes of her strange southron gods.

He’d have offed himself well and truly if the only pleasure he could find was the scant amount he could find in the cold bed of his cold trout of a wife.

She would’ve been better off with Ned.

His younger brother’s wolfsblood didn’t run as hot as Brandon’s, Ned might’ve been able to salvage something from the cold winds of duty and honor forced upon him.

But, no matter how he despised her, even Brandon could admit that she had more knowledge of the southron Houses than he ever wanted or needed.

Brandon Stark’s interest in the south of Westeros ended at the Neck.

He’d sooner venture beyond the wall than to the Twins.

Leaving his wife as the only resource he had for immediate information on this man his sister had married and what that might mean for his nephew.

If need-be, Brandon would settle a living on the boy if he ever came to call as his letter implied.

A holdfast of his own perhaps, or a future as the Master-at-Arms for Brandon’s heir Thorin.

Brandon had loved his sister dearly, had feared for her everyday and prayed for her safety every visit to the godswood, and he knew his brothers all felt the same.

For her sake, there wasn’t much he wouldn’t do or offer to her son, no matter who the father was.

Still, he’d feel better if he knew more than a _name_ or whatever Lyanna had confided regarding him and his people in her diary.

He found her where he’d expected: in her solar with her their daughters Sansa, with her hair like fire and Tully eyes but more beautiful than Catelyn had ever been, and Minisa, named for Catelyn’s mother, with the Whent good looks she’d inherited from the same matched with Stark coloring.

Letters from his brother told him that Ned’s daughter Arya, who was of an age with Minisa, was almost Lyanna in miniature from her looks to her attitude.

Brandon wished him all the luck the gods had to offer if it was true.

Sansa was a proper lady with a wolf’s own temper, while Minisa was a bit wilder but not to the extent of Brandon or his sister always had been.

He loved his daughters, truly, and could see where the looks inherited from their mother benefitted them, but he wished Sansa was more of the North than she was.

Too much Tully in her, like her little brother Bennon.

They’d be for the south, he was certain of it, a proper little lordling for Sansa and fosterage and knighthood for Ben.

Thorin and Minisa though, they were true children of the North.  No matter where their hearts and feet led them, Brandon knew they’d always come home.  Would always have an open hearth and hand for their people.

Two out of four, he thought, wasn’t bad though there was still plenty of time for Ben to grow bored of Catelyn’s pretty tales of dashing knights and turn into a northern warrior instead.

They’d see.

“Yes, my lord?”

Ah, the icy dulcet tones of his pinch-faced wife.

Always a pleasure.

“Lady Tully.”  He nodded civilly, ruthlessly twisting the knife that was the knowledge that by the laws of the North, unless or until Brandon took her as his mate she would never have the usage or authority that came with using the title of Lady Stark or the Lady of Winterfell. She was only a wife. Little more than a lawful broodmare to those of the North without a bonding and mating to go with her southron vows.  “Girls,” he shot bright smiles at his daughters who smiled right back, even Sansa who shot a worried glance at her mother after doing so, as if she was afraid of being scolded for showing affection to her sire.

What the fuck was that shit?

He’d have to have Old Nan sit in with his girls all the time now, if the Tully bitch was trying to poison them against him.

She at least would inform him of what goes on even if she didn’t have the authority to stop her.

He swore to all the gods that if Catelyn _was_ trying such underhanded trickery he’d send her packing back to Riverrun, wife or no wife. It wasn't as if there wasn't precedent in recent memory for him to take such an action. So unstable was her younger sister Lysa that the chit's husband Elbert Arryn, heir of the Eyrie, and sent her to the Silent Sisters - not even willing to risk her returning to her childhood home and further shaming either of their houses with her behavior.

“Do you know anything about a family, perhaps from the Crownlands, by the name of Vaelarys?”

Catelyn’s brow furrowed as she thought, eventually slowly shaking her head, even as she was deeply perplexed at the sudden interest of her lord in a family that was, as far as his staunch Northerner sensibilities would say, _foreign_.

“What is the full name, my lord?”

“Aurion Vaelarys.”  Brandon read the name back off of his nephews letter.

“Oh!”  Sansa gasped, eyes wide, and her parents turned to face her.  “I’m sorry, Mother, Father, that was rude of me.”  She bent her head back to her needlework, blushing brightly as her sister rolled her expressive grey eyes.

“Come now, Sansa.”  Brandon smiled gently down at his daughter, crouching a bit at her side so he wasn’t looming over her slight form.  She was only a girl of one-and-ten after all, not even presented yet, and Brandon was a large Alpha of northern stock, _looming_ happened to be something his great height and breadth tended to come easy to him, even when he’d rather it didn’t.  “I asked your lady mother but if it were private I would have done so in private.  Now.”  He said brightly, carrying on at a clip before Catelyn could interfere or interrupt.  She never _had_ learned to hold her tongue for all that it seemed she was intent on teaching such a thing to their children.  “You sounded like you know something, dear heart.  What is it?”

“It’s…”  She shifted a bit anxiously, eyes darting between her mother and father, almost flinching from the ice-cold look in the blue eyes she shared with her dam.  “It’s from the song, _The Emperor Who Never Was_ about the Doom of Valyria.”

Brandon turned and rose when that was all she would say, arching an imperious brow at Catelyn who looked like she’d been sucking on lemon salt.

“Sansa is correct.”  Catelyn nodded.  “Aurion was a dragonlord of Old Valyria who declared himself Emperor of Valyria and flew his dragon with a host of ten thousand following him from Qohor to the Smoking Sea.  He was never seen again though no mention has ever been made of his family name.”

“Thank you ladies.”  Brandon gave a gracious bow to his daughter in flamboyant style, then a crisp nod to his wife, then took his leave.  “That at least gives me a place to begin my inquiries.”

“Regarding what, my lord?”

“Stark business, Lady Tully.”  Brandon’s voice cracked like ice dropping from an eave.  “None of _your_ concern.”

…

_Prince’s Solar, Dragonstone_

Crown Prince Aegon Targaryen, he who would one day be the sixth king of his name, looked up when his Maester, a man of the Reach named Crellen, entered his solar with a puzzled look upon his face.

Aegon was only four-and-ten, but as he was the Crown Prince, his father Rhaegar had been firm in his education and training him to his duties, including overseeing his current seat of Dragonstone.  His uncle Oberyn Martell was an almost constant visitor to court after his mother’s death in childbed with his younger twin siblings Visenya and Daeron, and tended to accompany Aegon on these visits to take accounting of Dragonstone’s records and hold court for the smallfolk.  Training, ever training, though as his father was still a King in his prime, both strong and healthy, he didn’t anticipate transitioning from Crown Prince to King anywhen soon.

As the eldest son of his father, Aegon was confirmed as the Heir to the Throne in the Targaryen tradition, even though some of the Seven Kingdoms followed different laws of inheritance.

In Dorne, the eldest child regardless of gender or dynamic inherited before all others in the Rhoynish tradition.

In the North, the duty of inheritance fell upon the eldest Alpha regardless of gender.

Meanwhile, the rest of the Seven Kingdoms were – to quote his uncle Oberyn – a bunch of joyless assholes who generally only allowed Alpha or Beta males to inherit.

Which could get quite contentious as despite what some septons and tales liked to say, it was impossible to predict the dynamic of a child until they presented in their teen years, causing more than one problem over the ages, especially in matters of inheritance and betrothals as practiced in the Andal tradition.

“What is it, Maester?”  Aegon asked, lilac eyes bright in the torchlight.

“An inquiry from one of my order, Maester Luwin sworn to Winterfell.”  Crellen answered, still frowning down at the note in his hand.  “Asking that I investigate the Dragonstone library and archives for information.”

“What kind of information?”  His uncle’s dark voice spoke up as the laconic Red Viper dropped his feet from where they’d been propped on the edge of Aegon’s desk, the Dornish prince idly flipping a dagger through and around his fingers.  A man and alpha of infamously voracious appetites when it came to all things, Oberyn’s curiosity was almost as fierce as his spear.

“Regarding a legend and a family thought to be Valyrian in origin.”  Crellen answered the Prince of Dorne once Aegon gave him permission with a single nod.  “One Aurion Vaelarys.”

“Aurion Vaelarys.”  Oberyn huffed a laugh, shaking his head.  “Now _there’s_ a name I haven’t heard in, hells,” he blinked, thinking on it.  “At least ten years.”

“You know this man the Winterfell Maester is asking about?”  Aegon perked up at that, interest well and truly snagged.  “Was he _really_ a Valyrian?”

Aegon’s excitement could be excused he thought.

Descendants of the blood of Old Valyria weren’t hard to find, Lys and Volantis were nearly swimming in it, but an _actual_ Valryian, from a family of dragonlords, those were rare indeed.

In fact, House Targaryen was thought to be the only ones left of their kind who could still claim to be Valyrian and not just _of_ Valyria.

Semantics, he knew his uncle would scoff, but an important distinction regardless when it came to maintaining the aura and mystique of power that House Targaryen used to control Westeros, even without their dragons.

“That was the rumor.”  Oberyn shrugged.  “He was a sellsword when I knew him at least, never the most talkative fellow and had the Valyrian look.”  He motioned towards his nephew who was almost a mirror of Rhaegar at the same age from his silver-gold wavy hair to the bright purple of his eyes.  “What made it most likely rather than just another Lyseni grown from the rampant spreading of dragonseed was his equipment.”  Oberyn smirked at the sight of his young nephew almost hanging on the edge of his seat.  “Valyrian steel.  Enough of it that it could only have come from the Freehold.  Sword, armor, signet ring, sigil seal, everything.  Less educated men thought it simple darkened steel.”  Oberyn shook his head at that bit of stupidity.  “Only I and a few others knew better – and made sure his widow received them into her care for their son to inherit when he died by an arrow to the eye in the Disputed Lands.”

“That’s quite the tale.”  Maester Crellen hummed under his breath, committing it to memory to send back to his fellow at Winterfell – and to the Citadel for their records.  Valyrians were something the Citadel took _quite_ seriously.  “Any relation do you know to the Aurion of legend?”

“The failed emperor?”  Oberyn checked, arching a brow, then shook his head at Crellen’s nod.  “Not that I’m aware.”

“Thank you, Prince Oberyn.”  Crellen nodded, then looked towards his liege for permission to share Oberyn’s story – and check their own records for mention of the Vaelarys family.

“Search the records and send on what you find to your fellow at Winterfell.”  Aegon decided.  “Try to find out _why_ this Maester Luwin wants to know.”

“Yes, my prince.”

“And Crellen?”  Aegon’s words had him pausing just before leaving the room.  “Any information you find…copy it over and send it to me, even if I’m away from Dragonstone.”

“Yes, my prince.”

…

Little did Aegon know, but similar conversations were being carried out in the Red Keep between Grand Maester Gormon and his father the King and some Maesters of the Citadel, though lacking Prince Oberyn’s account, they had much less to go on than lucky – or so it might seem – Maester Crellen.

…

_Winterfell_

It took Ned a sennight to ride into Winterfell on a horse that was nearly blown, Benjen another sennight behind him, being both farther away and having to ask permission from Lord Commander Mormont to take his leave to see to his sister’s interment.

For another man the leave might’ve been denied, but the Starks had always been good to the Night’s Watch.

Made sure they were kept provisioned and allowed wandering crows to recruit freely from their lands.

Even if Mormont hadn’t once been one of their father’s most loyal vassals before taking up the charge of the Watch, he never would’ve denied a request from the current Warden of the North when it was easily within his ability to grant.

In that time, ravens had arrived with at least some information from Dragonstone, scant more from the Red Keep, and none at all but many questions about why Luwin was asking from the Citadel.

“Tell us.”  Ned said – nearly demanded – as the three brothers of Lyanna Stark, who’d been missing for more than a decade, met together beneath the heart-tree in the godswood.

Sighing, Brandon handed over the letter from their nephew and asked:

“Did either of you know she married and had a child?”

Brandon had been close to Lyanna, it was true, but he was bound to Winterfell and if their father ever even got a _hint_ of where she was, let alone Robert Baratheon, whatever freedom she’d managed to carve out for herself in Essos would’ve disappeared like a summer snow.

He didn’t blame her then for running and he didn’t blame her now for keeping him blind to her life.

But things would be easier to plan for the future – if his nephew did show up one day – the more information on her life and her husband and his family he had.

Gods forbid that Robert Baratheon should get the idea in his head to take out some idiotic vendetta against Lyanna’s defection or her husband – and mate if Brandon was reading things right – on her son.

Brandon would burn the Stormlands to the _ground_ if he dared, vows to never again have dealings with the south be damned.

Benjen and Ned shared a knowing look, especially as Ned handed the missive over to their youngest brother in turn.

“She wrote me at Starfall.”  Ned sighed.  “Artos,” his mate Ashara’s eldest brother.  “Sent it on via rider.  Though she told me almost nothing about her chosen mate.  In,” he squinted his eyes in thought.  “Two-eighty-two I think it another came regarding her son’s birth but nothing since.”

And gods did the news of her death hurt, like a dagger straight to the heart.

At least as long as the silence remained he could pretend she was alive and well and happy with her mate and son, if so very far from home.

“The same came to the Wall.”  Benjen admitted.  “Only asking that we not tell you or father until she found the courage to do so herself.”

“I guess that day never came.”  Brandon rubbed one hand over his face, feeling as if he’d aged a decade in a fortnight since his nephew’s letter arrived.

“I don’t like this mention of Jaerion leaving Braavos to travel.”  Ned said several long moments of silence between the brothers later.  “The way he worded it…and Lyanna never made mention of her husband having relations.”

“From the little I’ve found out from my inquiries he might not have done.”  Brandon frowned, then told the story Oberyn Martell – of all damn people – had given the Dragonstone Maester finishing with: “No talk of returning his ancestral weapon or armor to his family, just his widow.”

“I don’t like it.”  Benjen scowled fiercely, hand reaching down instinctively to grasp his sword hilt.  “The idea of our nephew being left to roam the world alone.  He’s a Stark of Winterfell no matter his family name.  He should be here or with Ned in Moat Cailin, not left defenseless in the world.”

“Well, if his plans remained the same then we don’t have much choice.”  Brandon noted cynically.  “He didn’t tell us _where_ he was going or why, just that he might come here to meet us and perhaps stay if he was welcome.”  He shook his head.  “We don’t even know what he looks like, only his name.  How do you find a single boy in all the Known World?”

“You don’t.”  Ned sighed.  “We just have to have hope.  It’s all we can do.”

His brothers grumbled but had no choice but to agree.

“Did the Maesters tell you anything else about Lyanna’s foreign husband or his people?”  Benjen asked.  “And did you send a raven to Maester Aemon at Castle Black?”

“Why would I?”  Brandon blinked, puzzled.

Benjen smirked at his big brother.  “Because he’s a Targaryen.  The King’s great-great uncle…I think.  Son of Maekar, brother of Aegon the Unlikely.  He might know more about the family of Aurion Vaelarys if he really is a Valyrian as Martell seems to believe.”

“No, I didn’t, and will remedy that when we return to the castle.”  Brandon shifted.  “As for the other Maesters, the Citadel was useless…”

Twin snorts from his brothers came at _that_ , complete with Benjen’s muttered “nothing new there then” then Brandon continued.

“Word from the Red Keep confirmed that a dragonlord named Aurion tried to claim Valyria in the wake of the Doom and the details: one dragon, ten thousand men, all lost.  It was Dragonstone that was the most informative and not just Martell’s story.”

Brandon paused a moment, ordering his thoughts before continuing.

“From the archives of Valyrian lore, Maester Crellen located one of the lists of the two-score families of dragonlords who ruled Old Valyria before the Doom and their sigils.  The way they were listed was curious, from the copy the Maester sent.  House Targaryen was almost at the bottom, not the last House named but close.  Near the top was another House listed.  That of House Vaelarys, with a sigil of a dragon ouroboros like the one on our nephew’s letter and the marriage cloak he’d wrapped Lyanna and her husband’s urns in.  If Lyanna’s Aurion Vaelarys was a member of _that_ House, then our nephew may have as much if not more pure dragon blood in his veins than the Targaryens.”

Benjen lifted his brows and let out a whistle.

That would be one hell of a thing to claim in the modern day, for the notoriety if nothing else.

With Rhaegar being a different stripe of man entirely from his mad father, who had died within a year of being deposed in favor of his son by the Great Council of Harrenhal in two-eight-one, it would even be a safe thing to lay claim to.

“All we can do.”  Ned brought the subject back around to their nephew.  “Is send out notice to our loyal men to look out for a boy by that name and that he is welcome in the North and all those loyal to House Stark are to treat him as one of us.  Anything more isn’t safe to say.  We wouldn’t want bandits hunting him for the idea of a bounty on his head or a reward if he’s brought to us.”

“Agreed.”  Brandon nodded.  “Lyanna and her Aurion will be interred here and we will do all we can to help her son, with the knowledge that we may not be able to help him at all, wherever it is that he’s gone.”

“Agreed.”

“Aye, I’ll speak of it to my brothers, though I doubt he’ll be seen at the Wall.”

“Good.”

…

_Hardhome_

The hardest part, Jon discovered, about his new circumstances was the waiting.

If the time in Braavos confined to the inn except for trips to the markets was bad, the time it took to cross the Narrow Sea on board a ship with _literally_ no where else to go was excruciating.

And not just for him.

Ghost had had it just as bad with no room to run or stretch his legs besides his “visits” to the deck to do his business over the edge of the rail.

No, if confinement was bad for Jon and his state of mind, it was nearly torture for his friend who had nothing and no one but Jon and Saerax to keep him company.

At least Jon had Aurion’s ancestor’s journal – and it was that, a journal of all the tales and lore and memories the man had had of the Valyrian Freehold, and where Jon found Saerax’s name – to keep his mind fed.

He’d never forgotten what Tyrion said about books being whetstones to sharpen a mind.

There might not’ve been much time on the Wall for him to _use_ what Tyrion had said to his advantage, but he’d done some reading when he could afterward, most notably when he’d been kept as a “guest” by Daenerys on Dragonstone.

He wished he had some of their dragon lore now, even a fraction of it, as all he had to go on with Saerax was his own instincts, what little he’d been told by Daenerys and his friends among her host about her “children”, and the ramblings of a long-dead Valyrian that may or may not have any truth to them and were at least a quarter rantings about the writer’s idiotic brother losing their dragon and his life in an attempt to claim himself as emperor of Valyria in the wake of the Doom.

Saerax thankfully hadn’t outgrown their sling-satchel by the time they arrived on Skagos and all three of them were dropped off by the traders who dealt with the Skagosi trading ivory, furs, and dragonglass for steel weapons, which was handy as Jon was able in turn to exchange some of his remaining coin for steel weapons of his own with the traders then trade those himself with the Skagosi for a large satchel of dragonglass arrowheads and daggers.

It was a bit of an odd way to do things, but no one had ever accused the Skagosi of being logical.

He’d have to cut his own shafts and fletch them, but it was a chore he was more than familiar with and wouldn’t take him long since he had to wait for a smuggler to come and take him from Skagos to Hardhome.

The daggers, those would be gifts to any tribe or clan of Free Folk he came across beyond the wall, along with the knowledge that they killed wights and Others alike.

It wasn’t much, not yet, but it was what he could do.

So he would.

It hadn’t been that long of a wait for the smugglers and the Skagosi Free Folk he’d stayed with had been willing to trade him a hut in exchange for his and Ghost’s help with a few hunts.

Even better, the trip on the deck of the smuggling vessel – while they were ruthless men, they’d been willing enough for a bit a gold instead of their usual hauls – had been quick and not all that cold with Ghost and Saerax to huddle with for warmth.

He’d bonded well thus far with Saerax, which he hoped was a good sign for when the hatchling was large enough to be a danger and they had to rely on Saerax’s training and the dragon's bond with Jon to keep him from going rogue and burning and hunting where and what he liked.

That was pretty much all he did all the way from Braavos.

Read.  Pet Ghost.  Read.  Work with Saerax.  Read.  Work on his draw strength with the dragonbone bow.  Read.

Needless to say, he and Ghost alike were ecstatic to reach Hardhome and the wide expanses of snow-covered white hills and fields surrounding it.

Only a few clans had gathered to trade with the smugglers, who were as glad to see the back of the odd omega warg with his direwolf companion and concealing black cloak he never took off as he was to see the back of them.

He’d made it.

He was home.

Now he just had to survive it alone for five years while he waited to go back south and start pushing events along so they didn’t all die horrible deaths to either the Night King or the champions of R’hllor.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't intend for this to be a Catelyn-bashing fic, however I feel that with the changes I've made regarding characters and relationships, it's completely in character for her to be colder, sterner, and more unforgiving than she was in canon because she is deeply unhappy here and that shows in everything she does and her relationships with other people.
> 
> As for Brandon, while we don't see a lot of him in canon and all of it is through the POV of others, there are a few take-aways regarding his character that I've chosen to utilize and extrapolate from to form his characterization.
> 
> Brandon Stark was known to be, like his sister, in possession of the "wolf's blood" temperament known to affect some of the Starks. He was considered wild, gregarious, handsome, charming, bold, and fierce among other descriptions, including rash and hot-headed. Unlike his younger brother Ned, Brandon also didn't foster or spend time outside of the North until he went south to meet his intended Catelyn Tully. Canon and semi-canon sources suggest that he wasn't pleased by the match made for him by his father, even to the point that he may have been a bit of a playboy with suggested affairs including Ashara Dayne and Barbrey Dustin, both of whom it's suggested may have had a bastard child by Brandon.
> 
> His only experiences with southern people in this fic didn't help endear them to him either. There's his betrothed who he didn't want, his sister's betrothed who she despised to the point of running away, and lastly (and only good impression he has of southerners) his brother's wife and mate Ashara Dayne. The latter of whom he can semi-dismiss his liking of as her having strong ties to the blood of the First Men and Dornish rather than the bulk of the mainland southerners.
> 
> All of this has fashioned a character in Brandon for this story that is, frankly, ethnocentric (regarding the North and Northern culture) and bordering on xenophobic with a dislike of southern marriage and mating practices since he blamed them and his father's diverging from Northern standards and culture for both his extremely unhappy match with Catelyn and his sister choosing to runaway rather than marry Robert Baraetheon.
> 
> My Catelyn and Brandon are not who I would consider to be good people though both have redeeming qualities and are deeply flawed.
> 
> End rant :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m going with ASoIaF canon here for the Thenns instead of GoT canon. In the books the Thenns are actually considered one of the most civilized clans of the Free Folk instead of cannibals like in the show. Which is why there’s a lot less “I hate Thenns” talk going on among the other Free Folk and Jon isn’t afraid to set up shop basically right on their doorstep.

** Winter’s Wolf **

**Chapter Four: The Valley of Thenn**

Karsi remembered well the day the stranger came to the North.

He wore a black cloak that hid his face, but he wasn’t a crow with the white reindeer hides she could see beneath it.

He walked quietly, nearly as silent as his massive direwolf, but even so the faint jangle of steel armor could be heard even with it being padded and muffled by his furs and leathers and wool.

A warg, to be certain, strong in the blood of the First Men as no other could have ever hoped to befriend a direwolf, let alone one that looked like Winter come again.

The man leapt nimbly from the deck of the smuggler ship that Karsi’s clan had come to trade with, good steel climbing spikes tucked into his swordbelt at his hip, with packs on his front and back, his wolf making the same leap before the smuggler’s skiff even pulled up at the shore but neither of them got their boots or paws so much as damp.

She couldn’t see more than his mouth and jaw under his cloak, but what little could be seen of his skin glowed in the summer sun.

His head turned this way and that, seeming to take an accounting of the handful of gathered clans, then strode forward without a word to the smugglers who were watching him in a combination Karsi would claim even years later to be a mix of fear and awe.

Walked right up to her, as bold as brass, and spoke in the Old Tongue, his voice strong and a bit rough with a mix of the cant of the Free Folk and the southerners beyond the wall.

Like Mance spoke.

Perhaps he was another turned crow.

He wouldn’t be the first and likely not the last either.

Mance certainly wasn’t.

The stranger reached into his cloak and took out another bag, this one shifting and clanking with the sound of rock or stone, even as the Free Folk started to mutter as they saw his back and got a good look at the bow slung over it.

None of them – Karsi included – had ever seen such a weapon of strange make.

It wasn’t wood or bone, at least none that they’d ever seen, nor steel either.  A deep grey that was almost black, it was as odd as the man – _male omega_ , she corrected herself when he got close enough to scent out – wielding it, with a string that shone in the light with the gleam of steel but darker.  It was carved with strange runes and looked as deadly as the fangs of the wolf padding silently beside him.

“Here,” the man said in the Old Tongue with a bit of a southern twist.  “For you and your clan.”

He reached into his bag and pulled out what looked like four daggers of a sharpened stone, then reached in again once she’d taken them and held out a handful of small – but as she tested them against her thumb, wickedly sharp, sharper than even steel – arrowheads.

“Why?”

He answered her with a question of his own: “do you know what’s out there?”  He nodded towards the North.

She sucked in a breath, eyes wide, then nodded slowly and looked back again at the weapons in her hands.

“It’s dragonglass.  The Skagosi,” he jerked his head towards the Bay of Seals to the south.  “Mine it and make weapons of it.  They will kill an Other if you strike a death blow, as well as their wights.”

“All we found was fire.”  Karsi murmured, frowning.  Mance needed to know this.  She’d have to send a runner to him at his camp where the clans were beginning to gather at Skirling Pass near the Giant’s Stair.

“Fire works on wights, aye.”  The man nodded.  “Dragonglass is better but it can be brittle.  It’s more valuable than steel, now, if the Free Folk want to survive the coming winter.”

With that he turned away towards the next clan leader, likely to repeat his gifting and words if Karsi was any judge of people at all, even one so strange as this.

“Wait.”  She called.  “When I tell Mance, who should I say gave me these?”

“Jon.”  The man said without turning around or looking back as he nodded his wolf off towards the Northern end of Hardhome.  “Just Jon.”

And she was right about his direction.

When the scouts she sent out came back from following the man and his tracks, they told her he’d made it around the point of the peninsula and was heading Northwest straight for the Frostfangs.

_Men_.

Always heading right into danger instead of using the sense the gods gave a field mouse.

…

_Skirling Pass, Three Moons Later_

“Who did you say gave you this?”  Mance Rayder, the King-Beyond-the-Wall, stared down in wonderment at the gleaming black dagger he’d just used to kill a wight captured by Tormund Giantsbane’s tribe to test whether dragonglass did what the stranger that was all the Free Folk could speak of promised it would.

A dozen tribes had met with the stranger over the last three moons from Karsi’s estimations of when he arrived with a giant white direwolf at his side and a bag full of dragonglass.

Always they said the same thing: he had few words, walked softly over the snow, and headed northwest.

From the path they’d scouted before refusing to follow his trail farther as it led to the lands now claimed by the Others, he might be making for the Valley of Thenn, one of the first lands of the Free Folk to be abandoned as it was the farthest North in the Frostfangs that any known clan dwelled.

It only took Mance three victories over the Magnarr of Thenn for the leader of who might be the purest blood of the First Men still breathing to agree to follow him and bring his people south.

At least with how strong tradition was for the Thenns he’d only had to defeat Magnarr.

Other clans weren’t nearly so bound to their chosen leader as they were nor half so civilized.

“Jon was the name he gave.”  Karsi reported, nudging the dead wight with the toe of one fur-wrapped boot.  “A warg and at least half a madman if he really is heading for Thenn.”  She smirked over at one of the clan leaders she called friend.  “Your type of omega, Tormund.”

“Madman or not, he’s given us a weapon against the dead.”  Mance decided to leave it at that.  “Tell the smugglers to start bringing us dragonglass weapons from Skagos instead of steel – except for climbing spikes.  We’ll arm as many of our people as we can with it and finally start fighting _back_ against the Others instead of running from them.”

A roar of approval came from the clan elders and warriors who’d all gathered to see the test of the dragonglass, boots stomping and swords clanging against wooden shields.

“No Free Folk will hunt a white direwolf with red eyes if it is seen.”  He declared, many of his people nodding in agreement.  “Or this Jon with his black cloak and light step.  He is one of us now.  No matter where he came from or if we never see him again.  Jon Winter-Wolf is a friend of the Free Folk.”

And then the very next day, the wives and daughters and daughter-wives of the filth Craster arrived in the company of a horse-sized white direwolf with blood-red eyes.

…

Jon headed straight for the Valley of Thenn for a solid moon, giving away his stock of daggers and arrowheads to the dozen or so tribes of the Free Folk he’d seen in that time other than those tipping his own arrows, when it hit him.

He’d forgotten something.

Or, more correctly, some _one_.

Gilly.

It was 295 A.C. – give or take a moon, it could be 296 already though he thought not – and Gilly wouldn’t have had her first moon-blood yet but her “father,” and Jon used the term _very_ loosely, was still alive and running around raping his daughters, forcing them to “marry” him, and sacrificing his sons to the Others.

He cursed the air blue to inquiring chirps of Saerax who’d been flying free or resting on either Jon’s or Ghost’s shoulders whenever he tired since they’d left the scouts of the Free Folk behind a week out of Hardhome.

The hatchling wasn’t quite so little anymore at six moons old, almost too big to ride sprawled out like a scaly cat across Jon’s shoulders though it would be many moons more before Ghost could no longer bear the dragon’s weight, and able to fly for hours at a stretch as well as do his own hunting and make great bursts of flame for a ten-count at a time.

Which was handy and save Jon quite a bit of time fiddling about with a flint of a night.

Rabbits, hares, squirrels, and fish out of the not-yet-iced-over rivers of the far north were Saerax’s meals at present when his hunts were successful – a margin that the dragon improved constantly under Jon’s instruction via their warg-bond and Ghost’s example – otherwise the dragon feasted on small deer or birds brought down by either Ghost’s fangs or Jon’s bow.

A bow that after half a year of working with he was finally starting to gain true proficiency with rather than every draw being a struggle and test of his strength.

On the good side of things, his arms had never been so strong.

On the downside it took him moon after moon of aching arms and hands to get there and if he wasn’t careful of the snap of the Valyrian steel bowstring it would slice right through his furs and leathers down to his gauntlets and mail in a split-second.

He’d tested it once the draw started to come easier, using a steel-tipped broadhead he’d bought in Braavos to use for hunting.

The bow shot with such force that the arrow had punched straight through the four-inch-thick piece of firewood he’d set up as a target.

Armor piercing.  Aurion had used an armor-piercing dragonbone bow.  Perhaps the only bow in existence viable as a weapon against a dragon if they had the right arrow to use with it.

When the gods sent him here, they’d certainly given him an interesting – to say the least – heritage.

Jon and his companions turned south through the Haunted Forest towards Craster’s Keep.

It might not be much, but any sons of Craster he could prevent being given to the Others was one less White Walker to destroy, and any of his wives, daughters, and daughter-wives he could save from the man were one less sin of inaction to weight on Jon’s mind for the rest of his days.

At least he’d remembered.

So much had happened since the moment he learned of what Craster did with his sons that he might not’ve before he turned south to return to Westeros towards the end of his five-year involuntary exile.

And the horrors those girls would have lived through both under Craster and if the men of the Watch turned mutineer in this world as they did in the last didn’t stand thinking about.

…

It took a fortnight for Jon, Saerax, and Ghost to make the long march to Craster’s Keep, dodging Free Folk tribes and Rangers from Castle Black alike, even one he thought might’ve been his uncle Benjen at one point.

He’d been told by the Child that this world had taken different turns than the last, leading him to keep watch of what went on at the Keep for a day and a night before rendering judgement.

He still wasn’t good at differentiating between dynamics the way others seemed to be, but in this case it didn’t matter _what_ Craster was in that way when he was the same scum in every other that Jon could see.

That was all he needed to know in the end.

Some would say that being brought into a new world as he was that Jon didn’t have the power to render judgement on others anymore.  He wasn’t the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch.  He wasn’t the King in the North or the Lord of Winterfell.  He wasn’t even the Heir to the Iron Throne.  All he was here was a man with a bit of knowledge who was good at killing, with the blood of the First Men and Old Valyria running in his veins.

Some would say what they liked.

Jon had a war to fight against ice _and_ fire.

And more and more he was starting to believe the latter might be an entirely different threat than it had been in his old world the more he learned of where he was now instead of where he used to belong.

This time he wouldn’t look away at _anyone’s_ command when he saw evil being done of one sort or another.

The lives of those he could save, that was all that mattered now, not whose ass sat on an Iron Throne or who was the Lord of Winterfell or called Lord Commander by the black brothers.

Life.

That was all that mattered as Beric had told him what seemed like forever ago.

And here, now, at Craster’s Keep he knew exactly what needed doing to fight for the living.

It didn’t take much to see it done.

Craster wasn’t much of a fighter in any world it seemed.

Jon wouldn’t have been surprised to find him Jonos Slynt’s long-lost brother with how similar both of the cowardly wicked shits were under their skin.

All he had to do was wait for Craster to leave his home to water a tree near his privy and a single mailed fist to his jaw had the cretin laid low.  It was the work of minutes to take some rope from a storage shed near the goat pen and secure him, binding his arms flat against his sides and hobbling his ankles then setting Ghost to watching him as Saerax watched from his perch on a tree out of view of the main lodgehouse of the Keep.

“Hello the Keep!”  Jon called out as he walked into sight, hood of his cloak pulled low as ever.

“Hello, stranger.”  The woman he recognized as Craster’s most senior wife from the world before stepped out, eyes darting here and there in search of her husband before she let out a little gasp of surprise at the sight of him bound and prisoner and her eyes shot wide with fear and her voice shook.  “What do you want with us?”  She asked even as she had a sinking feeling she knew.

It would be what all men wanted no matter their breed or dynamic.

Though perhaps this new one at least might not give their children over to the Others as a sacrifice or be mad enough to worship _them_ as gods.

“Calm,” he held up one hand in a gentle motion, Ghost sitting – it would almost be meek if it weren’t for the size of him – where he kept watch over Craster.  “I’m not here to hurt you, I’m here to help.”

“Help?”  She scoffed as her sisters and daughters and nieces alike spilled from inside the house, at least those old enough to present a united front and not the heavily pregnant or the infirm.  “What manner of _help_ do you think you can give us, stranger?”

“Well, I can give you justice against _him_ and what he’s done to you and your own for one.”  He jerked his head back towards the bound form of Craster who was still deeply unconscious from meeting his jaw with Jon’s armored fist.  “And give you passage to join the rest of the Free Folk at Mance Rayder’s camp for another.”

“Not the Wall?”  Her brows drew together.  She’d taken him for a crow, if a rogue one.

“Not the Wall.”  Jon shook his head.  “Even if they let you pass, Moletown is no place for women without a protector.”

Gilly, and the near-constant danger she had been in, had taught him and Sam alike that lesson.

The women huddled together, speaking quickly in hushed tones, more and more beginning to nod.

“What is this justice you speak of?”  A vicious glint sparked in more than one pair of eyes.

“I mean to take him to the heart-tree at Whitetree.”  Jon told them honestly.  “It’s the closest to here I know.  There I will pass sentence on him for rape, murder, and kinslaying.”

“You follow the old gods.”  The eldest wife of Craster nodded approvingly, eyes cold.  “Good.  And our passage.”

“Ghost.”  He pointed towards his massive white wolf.  “As a warg and him my friend, while I go south to serve justice on Craster he will guide you to Mance Rayder before leaving to rejoin me.”

“We’ll need time to pack.”  A piping – and too young – voice he recognized chimed from the back.

“You’ll have it, a day but no more.”  He warned.  “I’ll help you build sledges to pull, is there anyone too infirm or young to make the journey?  It’s a long one.”

“Mara is due soon.”  The eldest said, frowning lightly.  “And we’ve a pair of little ‘uns whose legs will need to rest now and again.”

“Then one of those sledges should have a harness.”  He shared a _look_ with his friend, Ghost huffing a groan and sending a warm sense of agreement through their bond.  “Ghost will pull it and them.”

…

And this was the story the wives and daughters and daughter-wives of Craster told Mance Rayder when they arrived at his camp in the Skirling Pass, the Free Folk giving them and their leader – a massive white direwolf – a wide berth until they were brought before the King-Beyond-the-Wall.

One of a stranger cloaked in black, who promised them justice and gave them freedom when no one else would.

From among the women one of the younger daughters passed over a letter written on decent parchment – a sight strange indeed to many of the Free Folk – to the King-Beyond-the-Wall, Mance frowning over it for long moments before he tucked it away.

“You’re welcome here.”  He promised them.  “Your stranger in black is named Jon Winter-Wolf.  He is a friend of the Free Folk and done us a great service.  At his request you will be taught to be proper spearwives, how to hunt and fight and survive.  What you brought with you will be your own, not taken from you, and if any man here dares to lay a hand on one of you that you don’t want you be sure to cut him and cut him deep for it.”

At Mance’s signal, Tormund who was the only man there mad enough to approach the direwolf, even the wargs giving it a wide-berth as trying to warg into another’s companion was asking to either go mad or have it attack you so viciously either the "enemy" warg or the companion would die in the fallout, stepped forward and undid the harness, the wolf stretching and giving a great shake of its coat before swiping one lavish kiss of its long tongue over the bearded ginger’s face and bounding away from the camp.

A few of Karsi’s spearwives led the survivors of Craster’s keep away to show them where to make camp and get a start on their training, Tormund and Karsi herself lingering around a pensive Mance.

“I can tell you one thing about Jon Winter-Wolf.”  Mance said when the camp had gotten back to its normal bustle and routine.

“Other than he managed to slip south instead of north and none of us knew it?”  Tormund huffed a laugh as he scrubbed off wolf-slobber from his face.

Mance rolled his eyes though he agreed.

They should’ve known that Winter-Wolf went south instead of north.

That they didn’t either said a great deal about the man’s abilities or equally much about their scout’s lack of it.

Personally, Mance would rather believe the former over the latter with the threat they were facing as a people.

“He’s not one of the Free Folk, or at least he wasn’t born as such.”  Mance told them, thoughtfully.  “He writes for one, which is a skill not taught to all below the wall or across the sea.  And he’s highborn.”

“Highborn?”  Karsi’s brows shot right up to her hairline.  “A southern kneeler lordling that gives half-a-damn about the Free Folk?”

Her incredulity could be excused, Mance thought.

If he didn’t have the proof inside his cloak, _he_ never would’ve believed it either.

“Aye.  He is.  Or from across the sea perhaps.”  Mance shrugged.  Impossible to say which it was until someone actually either saw the man’s face or heard it from his mouth.  “He might speak like one of us but he writes like a nobleman not the rough swipes of a quill I could make or any other lowborn or smallfolk lucky enough to have the bare bones of a southern education.”

“Well, fuck me.”  Tormund huffed a laugh.  “First a direwolf kisses me and then we learn that the southerners still have enough of the old blood to warg.  Wonders never cease.”

…

When Benjen Stark went out to Whitetree to pray before leaving on his next Ranging, he was shocked to find a headless corpse hanging from it and a head he recognized sitting at the base of it.

Craster.

He’d been beheaded and strung up from the tree to bleed out onto the roots like a deer or other large game.

Or as a sacrifice of old.

Cursing under his breath about the trouble this was going to cause – and knowing that his ranging had just been put on hold until after he’d ridden to Craster’s Keep and found out what’d gone on – he cut down the dead sack of meat and went about building a quick pyre for the scum in an empty glade nearby.

Task completed, he reported to Lord Commander Mormont and to no surprise rode out to Craster’s Keep and returned with what he found: a single sheet of parchment tacked to one of the support posts of the lodgehouse and naught else.

Not Craster’s wives or daughters.

Not their food and livestock.

Nothing but the empty bones of a once-thriving – no matter how distastefully Craster managed it – holdfast.

He gave over the parchment and went to find some stew and ale.

And he was right: Mormont wasn’t pleased about what he’d found, but there wasn’t anything the man could do about it.

Someone had finally held the cretin to justice and to Benjen’s shame it hadn’t been the Watch.

…

_To the Watch:_

_Craster of Craster’s Keep is found guilty of rape, murder, and kinslaying._

_Justice came for him far too late._

_His survivors and goods have been taken north to join their people and form their own clan._

_Winter came for Craster._

_Follow his example and Winter will come for you._

…

“What do you make of it, Stark?”  Mormont asked the next day after his first ranger had been fed and watered and allowed to rest.  “A wildling making light of your family’s words?”

“No wildling wrote that note, Lord Commander.”  Benjen rolled his eyes.  “Most men of the Watch aren’t educated enough to hold a quill so neatly, let alone those who live beyond the wall.  Still, it’s worrisome.”

“Missing any Starks with a taste for taking justice into their own hands?”

Benjen snorted.  “Brandon and Ned are both too busy in their keeps, Lyanna dead, and none of my nieces or nephews of an age where they could’ve managed such a thing, even if they managed to slip beyond the wall.  No.”  He shook his head.  “Someone was trying to make a point.  The only question is who.”

Though the thought lingered.

There _was_ a missing Stark.

The only problem was, Jaerion was a boy of three-and-ten and his point remained: not strong enough to hoist a man into a tree to be bled, let alone manage to take down Craster in the first place.

It was impossible.

In three or four years, maybe, and his brother’s children and sister’s son might manage such a thing with the same amount of time to grow and mature.

But not now.

And so the question remained: who, as the why was more than clear and Benjen half-wished he knew who’d taken care of Craster just so he could shake their damn hand.

…

The Valley of Thenn was nestled in the uppermost regions of the Frostfangs and the farthest northwest anyone – Free Folk, First Men, Night’s Watch, anyone – had explored in living memory or historical record of the Lands of Always Winter.

A name which Jon had always found somewhat ironic as the entire region of the western half of the north from Winterfell to Thenn sat along a volcanic range, even if it’d been an age since any of the peaks of the Frostfangs had erupted and longer since the smaller connected range south of the wall had done the same.

Ringed by the Frostfangs and home to both caverns to take shelter from the cold winter winds and hot springs that warmed the entire valley, with it abandoned by the Thenns for fear of the Others it was as perfect a place to live out his temporary exile as any Jon could think of, especially with a dragon to consider.

The Vaelarys writings said they thrived best and grew strongest in volcanic areas: Valyria, Dragonstone, and the Shadow Lands where they bordered the Mountains of the Morn were given as examples.

Hot springs might not be as good as a volcano, but it was the best Jon could provide safely as trying to sail to Valyria or the Shadow Lands was a madman’s venture and Dragonstone was off-limits.

Wights and Others would be drawn to them, it was true.

They somehow had a way of sensing the living.

But considering that Jon intended to do his utmost to thin the army of the dead whilst he was stuck exiled at the will of the gods from the Seven Kingdoms, that wasn’t a bad thing.

He finally arrived in the Valley with Saerax flying overhead and Ghost loping along at his side a full six moons after leaving Craster’s headless body bleeding out at Whitetree, nine moons from when he’d set boots down off the smuggler’s skiff at Hardhome.

Which was good to know.

He had a little more than three years and nine moons – give or take – to wait and hunt and train Saerax before he would need to leave the Valley to make it to Hardhome and thence to the Seven Kingdoms without extending his exile on accident.

It would be good for Saerax, he’d thought since the moment he’d decided on the Far North over Essos, to live and grow and hunt and fly free for such a time.

Time to use to grow their bond into one to rival that Jon had with Ghost.

To train his – fledgling now, he supposed – dragon to follow his commands, to know the difference between people and prey, and to know differentiate in battle between an ally and an enemy.

He didn’t imagine it would be easy, even with the warg’s bond.

It certainly hadn’t been when he’d had to teach Ghost the same – and that was with people _not_ being a natural source of prey for direwolves who preferred reindeer, caribou, elk, and even mammoths to men.

He’d seen what a weak bond and poor training led to with dragons.

He didn’t intend that Saerax would fall to the Night King as Viserion had done because the dragon didn’t know to dodge a spear.

Under Dany’s hand, they’d thought themselves as superior to all other creatures as Dany had thought herself above all other people.

Even those she loved.

Saerax would know better, wouldn’t be a danger to themself because of arrogance and stupidity.

Anything could be killed – or anyone.

All it took was one person with the knowing and the will to see it done.

Jon had reminded others of that over and over again in his old world and was making a start on it in this new one.

Now it was time to remind the Night King of it, even if Jon never did enough damage to his forces to draw either his attention or his ire, he knew how to kill better than likely anyone alive with, perhaps, a few exceptions.

With everything he’d been through, he wasn’t afraid to prove it.

Not anymore.

…

Jon’s first order of business was finding a good, solid cavern with only one entrance to use as his home for the next three-plus years.

There was a lot to consider, especially with the ever-present knowledge that the armies of the dead might come looking for him the longer he stayed, but eventually he decided on one with a large open cavern in front of a smaller cavern complex that would house Saerax even if he grew as large as Drogon had been towards the end or even a degree larger, with a passage that had been dug out – or widened perhaps – by the Thenns leading to a series of smaller chambers that he thought altogether might have housed a good portion of a clan.

Perhaps serving the same purpose as a longhouse would to other clans who were without the cave systems and hot springs to work with.

And there _was_ a hot spring at the back of the complex, about two hundred paces into the mountain via the passageway with cave-drawings like those he’d seen in the dragonglass mine on Dragonstone filling the cave walls.

Thanks to the hot spring, the innermost sleeping chambers were warm enough that Jon wouldn’t need a fire except to see by, though the passage was too small for Ghost to enter, the direwolf having to make his den in the large main chamber where Saerax would have to join him before long as the fledgling grew at a prodigious clip.

Then the real work of surviving began.

First he took the steel-headed axe he’d taken from Craster’s Keep, one of several the man had owned before Jon relieved him of his head at Whitetree, and started on filling the empty sleeping-chambers with sections of logs in some for firewood, with tree limbs in others that would serve for torches once the wood was dry and hardened, and twigs and tinder in yet another.

It took him almost a moon to finish, with rests for training Saerax or hunting with Ghost, who’d taken up his old ways of loping off for a day or two at a time.

His oldest friend was enjoying the freedom of the Far North as much as Jon or Saerax who flew high but never too far, stretching and strengthening his wings and sharpening his teeth and claws on the hard rock and volcanic stones of the northern Frostfangs.

Hunting came with meat to smoke – though with a hungry fledgling dragon and a direwolf to feed it never seemed to last long enough to finish the process before being gobbled up – and hides to tan with sinew to cure.

He’d need _something_ to trade to get his ass back to the Seven Kingdoms and certain hides and furs were hard to come by even for the Free Folk.

Hides that were _easy_ to come by when you had a direwolf and a dragon to help you hunt.

Shadowcats and snow bears and giant elk aren’t the usual sort of prey the Free Folk would hunt, given that all required large parties to bring down and all but the latter were difficult to track.

Wargs might try it to tame them but given the temperaments of shadowcats and snow bears alike, it wasn’t a quest most would bother with attempting.

Pit traps ringed the valley by the time he was done with his preparations, leaving only a snaking, wavering path for himself or Ghost to tread, and he did a circuit of them every few days on the back of Ghost, who was merely resigned at best to being a mount, to check for wights.

The direwolf would tolerate Jon on his back or pull a sledge if _absolutely_ needed, but he was as wild as the lands from whence he came and made certain Jon knew it by disappearing for a sennight or more if his friend irritated him too deeply.

At first there weren’t many wights at all in Jon’s traps, a handful here or there, but as time passed more and more were drawn to the Valley and more and more were killed.

Jon killed his first White Walker in his new home half a year or so into his stay with Ghost and Saerax in the Valley of Thenn.  Took his first shot of a dragonglass broadhead from his dragonbone bow.  It punched right through the hardened leather armor of the Other, piercing the heart and right through the other side of it as the Other shattered to ice the same as others of its kind had done on his Valryian blade time and again.

He’d walked down onto the killing field he’d made and found the arrow after all the wights were picked off by flaming arrows or Saerax.

The dragonglass broadhead was shattered as well as the Other but it’d done the job.

And now he knew.

He’d have to keep the strength of the bow quiet, only use it on the Others without it being witnessed by more of their kind.  Wights weren’t a concern.  They either were unmade when the magic of the Other controlling them disappeared when it was destroyed or they were killed once Jon was done with the Others.

Jon after years and years of searching had finally _finally_ put the pieces together to stave off the Long Night and defeat the armies of the dead and their dreaded night king.

Fire.

Dragonglass.

Valyrian steel.

Dragonfire.

Now a dragonbone bow.

Valyria really _was_ the bane of the Others, almost every one of their weaknesses seeded and brought to fruition in the cusp of the legendary Fourteen Flames.

He didn’t fool himself that the war would be _easy_ even so.

The Night King was a foe only a fool would underestimate.

And thus the years passed.

He trained with Saerax who grew from a fledgling the size of a dog to a dragon grown easily as large as Drogon had been despite being two years younger than the black dragon had been when last Jon saw him.  His dragon was smart, smarter than he thought Dany’s had been though that might be his bias showing or that he’d never treated them as a beast or animal to be tamed.  Saerax could shoot a pillar of flame so hot and strong and long that it melted stone, pluck a single deer from a herd that Jon marked for them without so much as bruising or singeing the others, and fly for a day and a night before requiring rest.

Ghost hunted and roamed and played, sometimes with Jon, sometimes with Saerax, the two growing into quite possibly the oddest pair of brothers he’d ever seen and a set akin to the handsome Kingslayer and his Imp brother.  He kept Jon company on days too cold to bother with hunting and snuggled with Saerax most nights once the dragon had grown too large to navigate the cavern passageway back to Jon’s sleeping pallet.  Ghost was fully grown and of a height with a warhorse when he’d followed Jon into a new world, but his body grew strong and lean and fast on a steady diet of hunts and runs through the northern range of the Frostfangs with all the venison, mammoth, or aurochs beef he could stomach.

As for Jon, he warged alongside his friends, hunted bear and elk and shadowcats in their skins and in his own, tanned hides and lived on meat and wild summer berries, treating himself on a rare honeycomb when Saerax or Ghost’s sharp eyes spotted a hive ripe for raiding.

He read the stories Aurion's ancestor had penned of Old Valyria and the few books he’d taken from Lyanna’s manse over and over again, a whetstone to the edges of his mind. 

And he never stopped fighting the dead, his face unchanging as the Child had implied it would be until his new body’s years caught up with its structure but his muscles hardening, cutting away any softness to be found after moons of leisure as he’d worked his way to the Valley of Thenn.

When the day came to leave, it was bittersweet.

The Valley of Thenn had been a good home to them all, even with having to fight off the dead.

He imagined they all felt only a fraction of the dismay that had filled the Thenns when the dead had driven them south to join Mance.

Just another sin to lay at the feet of the Night King.

And to take vengeance for.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone else wants to geek out with me on theories to do with dragons and magic and so on in Westeros, I like (even if I don't always agree with) these videos:
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCB3w8ltYiIpSqH7sgjg1a8w

** Winter’s Wolf **

**Chapter Five: Jaerion Vaelarys**

_Valley of Thenn; Fourth Moon of 299 A.C._

Jon tightened the last rope fashioned of mammoth sinew and hair over the aurochs-hide sledge cover.

Of the three of them, Ghost and Saerax were capable of carrying and/or pulling a greater load than Jon ever could, and of the odd “brothers” the direwolf was less likely to take a bite out of Jon for the effrontery of being used as a beast of burden no matter the need at hand by their person.

Though he certainly _would_ give Jon a nip if he ever thought his friend was taking him, and his willingness to play mount or packhorse, for granted.

Saerax actually enjoyed having Jon on his back for flying through the skies, Jon’s weight insignificant to the dragon even with accepting a saddle stitched together of multiple layers of mammoth hide topped with a snow bear fur that Jon had fashioned after many, many trials and errors, upon their back.  More rope made in the dark nights of the far north lashed the saddle to the base of Saerax’s neck when they were going for a fly and thinner cordage of sinew – reindeer and aurochs mostly – helped anchor Jon in place in the saddle when Saerax’s neck grew too thick for his legs to comfortably straddle.  His most recent “saddle” was more a raised seat of shaped leather with snow bear fur for cushioning that served to give him something to rest on and grip with his thighs when he didn’t want to stand during a lengthy flight than anything else. Since standing during flight meant being strapped in by a belt around his hips and holding onto more straps to steady himself in turns, it wasn't something he could do for every moment of every flight, even if it had become one of his favorite things to do since it gave him an nearly unlimited range of vision of the world from high in the air.

In a few more years, Jon would be no more than a flea on a dog’s back to Saerax, a fact which had him thanking the old gods every day that either his dragon was simply easier natured than Dany’s temperamental trio or that his raising of Saerax had led to a calmer dragon as trying to fit a saddle on Rhaegal let alone Drogon or Viserion would have been nothing less than a death wish.

He didn't like to consider the other reason why Saerax may be calmer than Dany's three, that it was due to the person who Saerax was bonded with and the influence Jon therefore had on their nature, much as he and Ghost had influenced each other greatly when they were significantly younger.

Warging, it was said by the Free Folk, was an exchange of souls or at least part of them.

It was like a marriage or a mating of friends and could be broken only by death though even then, if the skinchanger died first, then a piece of the man's soul will go on living inside their companion, altering them forever.  People were the same.  Haggon had warned him in his first life that if he spent too much time inside a prey animal even the bravest of men could grow cowardly and craven.  To spend too much time in a bird would make you earn for nothing so much as the freedom of the skies.  Dogs and wolves, Haggon thought, were the easiest and closest minds for most skinchangers to slip into while cats of any make could be cruel and capricious.

He wondered what that elder of the Free Folk would have thought of the idea of bonding a dragon, if that was so.

To be fair to Dany, Jon had had little else to focus on a great deal of the time over the last four-plus years other than raising Saerax and killing the dead.

He didn’t need to fear starvation or dying of thirst in the Red Waste.

There were no warlocks or scheming spice traders in the Valley wishing to take Saerax from him or use them to conquer the world.

No assassins, no traitors, no spies, no plots.

No cities and slave masters to lay waste to.

Jon had to work to survive in the Valley, especially with only a direwolf and a dragon for help and company, but nothing stole his attention from Ghost and Saerax to the extent that Dany had had to divide herself.

He could easily twine or braid cordage from prepared sinew while joining his mind to Saerax’s as the dragon soared through the sky – though it had taken significant practice to keep himself from being blind to all else while joining with his friends, a feat that if it weren’t for the example in his old world of Haggon, the elder and mentor of the unofficial clan of skinchangers, and Haggon's former student Varamyr Sixskins he wouldn’t have even known was possible.

Like Ghost, Saerax communicated through images and scent-senses and instinctive feelings or emotions, not in words as men used them though also like Ghost could be taught that certain words meant certain things for times when speaking to Saerax was faster than using their bond to communicate.

Words mostly in High Valyrian, which was spoken more widely – he assumed – given what he’d learned before disappearing himself up in the Valley for four years regarding the ongoing Targaryen control of Westeros than it had been when Dany had used it to command her dragons.

Not that even _knowing_ the right words would do another any good with Saerax.

He was truly bonded to Jon in the way of the dragons of old had been to the dragonlords from what Jon gleaned from his ancestor’s tales.  Something he’d come to terms with regarding his new circumstances in the last few years, his new heritage and ancestors and relations, including a man most would expect Jon to call father in Aurion.   From what he could tell, the Vaelarys family had been far from the worst of the Valyrians, though that certainly didn’t free them from the crimes of the Freehold as a people against those they conquered and enslaved.

Saerax as a result of their bonding wouldn’t accept another rider or heed the wants and words of another until Jon died and their bond was broken.

Jon didn’t need many words for Saerax, just a few.

_Kelītīs,_ or halt to stop Saerax from an action.

_Ajomemēbagon,_ to rage on, giving him leave to attack an enemy force – such as a herd of wights – at will.

_Jittan,_ to send off.

_Ozzālagon,_ to burn away, Jon’s version of Dany’s _dracarys_ , a word that still shook him to his core and gave him nightmares.

_Qrinuntys,_ or enemy, to mark a target among a number of others such as a single deer from a herd or an enemy among friends.

And the opposite: _Raqiros,_ or friend, to mark a thing Saerax was to leave alone.

Not many words at all, just a half-dozen that took the better part of two years to teach Saerax to the point that he followed them reliably with more complex ideas being the sole province of sending information through their bond, such as instructions for Saerax to fly free but stay away from men and the dead alike until Jon called for his mighty friend.

It wouldn’t do to lose his supreme advantage – sheer surprise and awe – with the southerners by revealing Saerax early.

Or to lose his friend and companion to an Other’s ice-spear because the dragon flew too near the army of the dead or one of their gathering grounds.

No longer a hatchling, Jon _could_ trust that between him and Ghost they’ve taught Saerax how to use all of the dragon’s excellent senses to keep themself safe for the time that they must be parted.

That didn’t mean he wouldn’t worry anyway.

Admittedly, it had been more Ghost teaching things to Saerax with Jon simply acting as a conduit of information between the two predators, but he did help the process of translating between a direwolf’s view of the world and a dragon’s.

Which was an exercise not unlike translating High Valyrian into Common Tongue then into Old Tongue, one of the most dreaded tasks Maester Luwin used to punish mouthy boys in Winterfell’s halls.

Patting Ghost on his white-furred side, Jon looked up at Saerax who was flying in idle circles far over their heads, indigo hide gleaming and scattering of silver scales shining in the ever-weakening Autumn sun.

Summer had lasted longer than he’d remembered from before, perhaps an effect of Saerax’s hatching from what Maester Aemon had once told him of the connection between living dragons, long summers, and short winters, but he didn’t need a white raven from the Citadel to announce the turning of the seasons into the Autumn, living in the wilds he could see it for himself in the pelts of the animals and the state of the rivers and lakes and trees.

If things stayed the same – aside from the time it took Summer to fade – then it would be a five-year waning season before the cold of true winter set in.

If not…who knew?

Winter in his old world had officially arrived in Westeros according to the Maesters of the Citadel in three-oh-five or three-oh-six by his reckoning.

If that at least stayed the same – or even was delayed as Summer had stretched on beyond what he recalled – then he still had time before the Night King was at the height of his power.

Jon hoped he did.

He will hate to have wasted a handful of years in involuntary exile at the behest of the gods that could’ve been used more effectively than giving a few warnings to the Free Folk and killing any wights or White Walkers that came calling in the Valley.

Taking one last glance around at the valley that had sheltered him and his friends, given them all time to heal and grow and rest and learn, he felt a deep mix of sadness at the peace they were leaving and a hard resolve not to see this place as ruined and destroyed – the hot springs frozen, the wildlife all killed or driven off – as it had been in another world.

The Valley of Thenn had been good to him and his.

He would repay it by protecting its people as best as he could.

Feeling for his bond with Saerax in his mind, he nudged the dragon gently.  Saerax would stay with them for many days before they reached the lands far enough south that coming across the Free Folk was a worry.  Then the dragon would go and fly free for a time apart from Saerax’s friends and companions.  At least, that was the plan.  Jon's plan.  That didn't mean that Saerax would follow it perfectly or at all.  If they were influencing each other, Saerax had definitely picked up on Jon's protective stubbornness.  Which wasn't saying much.  Dragons were a whole new shade of unmovable when they wished to be.

Until then, Jon and Ghost had a friendly and watchful eye in the sky marking their path and guarding their way.

“Let’s go, Ghost.”  He sighed, patting the wolf one more time on his heavily muscled shoulder.  Time to rest and run and hunt hadn’t just been good for Jon but his friends as well.  “The Long Night waits for no one.  Not even us.  We’re needed in the south.”

…

Together Jon, Ghost, and Saerax scouted and killed a dozen hunting parties, some of wights alone and some mixed with both wights and Others on their way from Thenn to Skirling Pass before Saerax had to take their leave lest they be seen by the living.

Jon enjoyed riding the skies with Saerax either in person or tagging along in the dragon’s mind.

Saerax’s thoughts were far more complex than even a very intelligent direwolf’s such as Ghost, but like Ghost distinctly foreign from the way Jon thought. 

And warm.  By the gods was Saerax warm in both body and mind.  There was more than one spot in the Valley that had a sheet of ice at least a handspan or more thick from the dragon’s heat melting the snow and ice around it only for the remaining puddle to refreeze after the dragon had taken flight once more.

Jon wasn’t certain – entirely – _why_ Saerax was growing as fast and strong as the dragon was.

He had his theories from things said by Dany and Tyrion and Jorah or gleaned from the Vaelarys writings and scrolls.

There were a few reasons he thought might have merit, though at least one of them edged into near-conspiracy ravings from Sam’s conversations with various Maesters while he studied in the Citadel.

Saerax was – unless Jon’s memory had gone faulty and given that he’d stood teeth-to-hand with Drogon more than once he didn’t think it was – at two years younger than Drogon had been when last Jon saw him larger than Drogon had been, who in turn had been larger than his brothers.  Jon had been able to stand beside Drogon’s head and wasn’t dwarfed by the dragon’s skull as Dany had been at least once in his memory, though he thought Drogon’s skull as tall as he was or at least within an inch or two of being so.  When he did the same with Saerax, he had to look up and even on his toes wasn’t able to peer over the top of the indigo dragon’s skull.

It was a puzzle and one he had more than enough time to contemplate over the years since he’d realized Saerax was outpacing the growth of the largest dragon Jon had known in his previous life.

The writings of the Vaelarys ancestor, whose brother had indeed been _that_ Aurion of lore, had stated that dragons grew faster and stronger and larger in the Valyrian peninsula than they did in the “daughter” cities of the Freehold that would become the Free Cities after the Doom and that the closer the manse of a dragonlord to the peninsula if not in Old Valyria itself the faster and stronger and larger the dragons of the dragonlord would be over one who lived farther away.

For instance, a dragon hatched and allowed to grow in Volantis would – generally – be more impressive than one of Lys.

Those writings, while a bit suspect since it was a second-hand accounting of lost tomes and information, had been one of the factors Jon had considered when choosing the Frostfangs for his exile over staying in Braavos.

Tyrion had insisted that dragons didn’t – couldn’t – thrive in captivity when retelling his unchaining of Rhaegal and Viserion under the Great Pyramid of Meereen, using the example of the stunted hatchlings of the dragonpit for proof of his assertion.

Saerax had always been able to fly free, even if only within the confines of an inn room or a ship’s cabin when freshly hatched.

Food had never been an issue, Jon either feeding the hatchling from his own plate until Saerax was able to hunt on their own, unlike the struggles Dany had undergone trying to discover out how and what to feed her brood as they crossed the Red Waste.

Sam had told him that one of the Archmaesters of the Citadel insisted that dragons were magic and the Citadel hated magic, finding it contrary to the world of logic they were trying to build, possibly even working to kill the dragons and undermine the Targaryens to stamp it out.

That dragons might – _might_ – grow faster in places where magic was practiced or at least not smothered…like Old Valyria or the Far North.

Jon didn’t know about that.

Didn’t know anything about magic really for all that he was a warg and – now – a dragonlord.

Didn’t _want_ to know anything of it, honestly.

He, at heart, was a simple creature.

Point him at an enemy, he’ll fight it, kill it if possible.

Point him at a problem and he’ll figure out a way over, around, or through it.

Ask him a question of philosophy or magic or religion?

He’s lost and not really interested in being found by another’s logic or argument.

Thankfully, his usual companions didn’t care much for such things, instead their minds dwelled, like Jon’s, on simpler matters of food to eat, a warm place to rest, and in the case of Jon every six moons plus a fortnight finding a compatible mate.

_Heat_ , by the gods, was a sensation he’d really rather have done without.

He was luckier than some omegas he knew from what the Child of the Forest had briefly mentioned, he could be stricken with the malady that drove him spare for sheer _wanting_ twice every year far more often, but even the mere nine times he’d gone through it since arriving in his new world and body was enough to know that heat, alone, was maddening.

Granted, his experience of sex to begin with wasn’t all that vast with only two lovers to his name and both of those women, so the desires plaguing him in his new body were a bit at odds from what he’d always known.

Yearning for a, a _mate_ to mark and breed him – from what he’d come to understand – was a weakness.

One he only experienced twice a year but one that he’d have to be on his guard against once he was back among people where such _yearnings_ might be problematic, especially as through his bond with them Ghost and Saerax were likewise unsettled during Jon's times of heat, if not actively seeking out a partner in the case of Ghost. His oldest friend and companion might be a sire nine times over by now, thanks to Jon's heats. Thankfully, Jon didn't know the answer to that, as he didn't warg in his sleep or outside of his active control since his time with the Free Folk in his first life.

Jon had too much to do to worry about ideas of, of _mating_.

He had a feeling it was a joke played on him by the gods that they, at least, were certain to be enjoying.

Taking one of the best killers alive in his old world, for all that he hated that _that_ was what he was good at, and sticking him in a new one where twice a year he couldn’t think to hurt a fly buzzing around his dinner let alone defend himself or others from an attack.

Thanks to being in seclusion for the better part of his time in his new world, Jon still didn’t know or understand much about being an omega or what it even _meant_ for him beyond what he could glean from implications in the handful of books and scrolls he’d brought with him from Braavos.  Or what he’d figured out from trial and error.  Unfortunately, he hadn’t the foresight – so focused at the time with being lost and swamped with things to get done in a new world – to include books on the subject when he’d picked through Lyanna’s scant collection of literature.

One thing that hadn’t taken him long at all to figure out however was that people in his new world – including himself – were a degree or two or maybe more, closer to their more animalistic selves than they had been in his old world.

Some had liked to say that all men were beasts under their skin and giving them a sword unleashed it.

As a warg and having experienced life in both worlds, he felt uniquely qualified to say that while that might be _metaphorically_ true in his old world, knowing how a predator’s mind and instincts worked such as Ghost or Saerax’s, the people of his new world were closer to their animal kin than they might think – at least when it came to matters of mating and young and territory.

Survival, he supposed, being what it all came down to.

Gods knew, he’d never in his life made a sound like the actual _growling snarl_ that almost ripped out of his throat when he arrived at Mance’s camp in the Skirling Pass and a musky-smelling male that he just _some-fucking-how_ knew from their half-unwashed and half-pure aggression scent was an alpha pressed too close into Jon’s arm-range.

Granted, Jon had run out of the simple hard soap he’d bought in Braavos for his hair after a year in Thenn, but he still took advantage of the hot spring to bathe away the sweat of the day and rubbed himself with clean sand to keep himself and his clothes from collecting a heavy layer of dirt.

But there was a major difference between simply needing a bath because he’d been traveling and not having bathed in _moons_ and the encroaching alpha was definitely the latter.

A fact that when combined with all the stares at himself and Ghost wasn’t making him feel too sure in his decision to at least _try_ and talk Mance away from attacking the wall before he headed south to start maneuvering – as best he could – the Northmen and southerners into a position that would help with the coming threat of the Night King.

“Oi!”  The booming shout had the snarl-inducing, sour-scented alpha scurrying away with wide eyes.

Jon held in a smile as he turned to look towards the center of the massive encampment of the Free Folk and the large central tent with its white snow bear hides.  A tent fit for a King.  He knew that voice.

Even having not heard it for five years, he doubted he’d ever forget it.

Jon’s snarl had ripped and carried on the still early-morning air, even if the sight of him striding lightly over the snow with Ghost and the sledge beside him hadn’t slowly drawn the activity of the camp to a slow halt as more and more eyes turned towards them as they made for what he knew damn well was Mance’s tent.

“Whatever the fuck you did to make an omega sound like that you better fucking _pray_ to your ancestors never happens again you rank fuck!”  Tormund Giantsbane continued to bellow, the large ginger alpha male striding quickly over towards Jon, who he thought were Karsi and the Lord of Bones not far behind him.  “You fucking idiot cunt!  That’s Jon Winter-Wolf you’ve done pissed off!  Mance’ll have your _arse_!”

The tirade continued for several minutes, Jon’s brows climbing higher and higher under his hooded cloak – both at the tirade _and_ the name he’d apparently been given among the Free Folk.

Finally Tormund turned towards him with a bit of an expectant frown, bright blue eyes eyeing up both Jon and Ghost as Karsi had a half-grin of welcome on her face and the Lord of Bones seemed as put out and suspicious as usual.

“You are, aren’t ya?”

“Well, my name’s Jon.”  He said, his humor at the situation carrying through loud and clear.  “And I’ve met her before.”  He nodded his head to the spearwife clan leader behind Tormund.  “Gave her a couple daggers and some arrowheads at Hardhome, almost five years ago now.”

Tormund smiled brightly and clapped him heavily on the shoulder, so heavily that if he hadn’t expected it and braced Jon would’ve taken a tumble into the snow.

“Aye, that’s you then.”  Tormund agreed after exchanging a questioning look with Karsi.  “Mance decided you needed more than just Jon for a name after you gave us the information to take the fight to the dead fucks plaguing our home.  C’mon.”  He patted the – lithe but strong he thought from the shoulder he could barely feel under furs and armor – omega and gently urged him towards Mance’s tent.  “He’s going to want to talk to you.”

Before Tormund could get out of reach, Ghost yipped lightly and leaned over to lavish him with another kiss, just as excited as Jon to see their friend even if _this_ Tormund didn’t quite smell the same as their old Tormund.

“Oi, you beast, I remember you.”  Tormund groused, having to wipe away more wolf slobber.  “You’ll have to wait outside.  No room for direwolves in Mance’s tent.”

“That’s fine.”  Jon allowed, nodding but still not taking down his hood to show his face to the encampment.  “I’ll need to unharness him since I don’t think this’ll be a quick talk.”

“Aye, best do at that.”  Tormund agreed as they walked – Karsi and the Lord of Bones going ahead to warn Mance – through the camp.  “A direwolf is frightening enough to some of us.  Having him in a temper won’t help things at all.”

…

Tormund watched with curious – and cautious, friend of the Free Folk or not he knew a man wearing southern armor even if he hadn’t felt it under the Winter-Wolf’s hides and furs – eyes as the cloaked warg let his bonded direwolf out of its harness a glance all it took from the man to have the white wolf curling up on the ground.

Rather effective theft prevention that.

Nothing like a massive wolf with blood red eyes resting between a fully loaded sledge and the camp to keep the curious and sticky-fingered away.

Those that wouldn’t be attempting to listen in on Mance and the Winter-Wolf anyway.

Karsi and Rattleshirt, the Lord of Bones, had gone on ahead into Mance’s tent, Tormund reaching out and pulling back the thick reindeer hide flap and waving the Winter-Wolf through, watching as he moved and walked and watched everyone around him.

“Welcome Jon Winter-Wolf.”  Mance greeted the black-cloaked stranger, rising from beside the fire and setting aside his lute as Tormund took account of who was in with him, easily marking Karsi and Rattleshirt, Styr the Magnar of Thenn, and Mance’s woman Dalla though her sister was nowhere to be seen for the moment.  “I’ve been waiting to meet you for many moons.  Come,” Mance’s face flickered with a frown as Tormund shrugged out of his own cloak and hung it on a peg, settling down to watch beside the fire.  “Won’t you take off your cloak and take bread and salt and ale at my fire?”

“I will.”  Jon nodded, his concealing cloak dipping.  “But not until _he_ ,” one armored and gloved hand waved towards Rattleshirt.  “Is gone.”

Rattleshirt started to kick up a stink, only to be silenced by a hard look from Mance’s normally pleasant enough face.  All of the Free Folk knew that look.  It was the same one he got right before he’d cut down three others who’d tried to unite the clans and become the King-Beyond-the-Wall.  One that was to be obeyed or be forced to obey.

Mance didn’t ask them to kneel, he wasn’t some southern lord or king but of the Free Folk, but that didn’t change that Mance’s word was their orders and never would so long as the former crow was the King-Beyond-the-Wall.

“You were right, Karsi.”  Mance noted as Rattleshirt stormed off out of the tent, amusement ripe in his voice.  “His voice _does_ has the southern cant found north of the Neck.  And he _is_ exactly the type of feisty omega Tormund likes.”

“No offense.”  The Winter-Wolf laughed as he stripped out of his gloves and tucked them in a pocket inside his cloak before raising pale-white hands and slowly lowering his hood, nearly knocking loose Tormund’s breath in the process.  “But I like my gingers a bit more…female.”

Karsi, Styr, and Mance all managed a laugh after the shock of what they were seeing wore off, Tormund finally finding his tongue and joining them with a good-natured shrug.

Jon Winter-Wolf was a damn beauty of that there was no doubt and his cloak made damn-good sense now that they knew what he looked like without it.

There was no question that under the bulky furs and leather – which still didn’t make him as hefty as someone like Tormund was even _without_ layers of furs – that he had a tidy, lovely omegan body that was all long and lithe limbs with the muscles expected from a fighter, and was tall with it as male omegas and female alphas alike tended to be likely for reasons surrounding their ability to both carry and sire children.

A fall of hair was braided back and wound into a knot at the back of the Winter-Wolf’s head, a pale silver-white Tormund had never seen on a young person before and nearly the same color as a fresh morning snowfall or his wolf’s pelt.

But it was the face and eyes that truly stole Tormund’s breath for a moment before he regained his senses, remembering that he was a happily mated alpha, and gave the others pause as well, even Karsi who normally didn’t care for omegas and Mance who didn’t care for males.

The Winter-Wolf’s face was prettier than most women Tormund had ever met, prettier than his daughters for certain, and marked by eyes in a bright purple he’d never seen on either a person or animal before.

Though it wasn’t just the looks either.

Without the cloak managing to hold in most of the omega’s scent, Tormund couldn’t deny that it was rather… _appealing_ even to someone who’d been mated for almost twenty years since he was little more than a lad Winter-Wolf’s age or maybe even younger.

It was hard to say sometimes with southerners.

Their easy lives aged them slower than most of the Free Folk.

“You’re not one of the Free Folk.”  Mance eventually said after searching every inch of the warg’s face, eyes darting particularly between his hair and eyes.  “Not by birth.  I’d thought as much from your note.”

“No, I’m not.”  Jon shrugged.  There was no point in trying to pretend any different with what he looked like now.  “That doesn’t make the North any less my home or me any less willing to fight for it.  Fight to protect it.”

“Aye.”  Mance’s lips tugged up in a half-smile.  He understood that all too well even if he knew – in a way no one _not_ educated at the Wall or farther south could – what it was he was staring at.  “What is it then?  Lyseni?  Volantene?  Tyroshi?  Or a dragonseed from the Crownlands?”

“None of those.”  Jon smirked in turn at Mance’s guesses regarding his heritage.  Trying to get a bead on where his loyalties might lay even with all he’d done for the Free Folk with the information and weapons he’d freely given them.  Not that he could blame him.  Mance had spent too damn long trying to save his people to let them be weakened by an infiltrator, even one playing a long game.  “A Valyrian with a Stark for a mother.”

“Ahhh…”  Mance did give him a full-on grin at that.  “I’d wondered what had become of the Lady Lyanna, as many did.  Ran off to Essos, did she?”

“Got herself a mate and a son.”  Jon agreed easily, filling in a few of the blanks.  “When she died I decided to explore Ghost’s home with him before going to meet up with my kin in Winterfell.  In the process I found what’s out there,” he pointed towards the north.  “I may only be half Stark but the North is my home and I’ll never stop fighting for it.  No matter what it takes and no matter the odds.”

“That’s why then, I’d wondered.”  Mance nodded, then waved Dalla forward with the carved bone tray holding a small loaf of the same honeyed brown bread Mance ate at his table and a small dish of salt with a horn of ale.  “Bread, salt, ale.  You are a friend of the Free Folk, Jon Winter-Wolf, and welcome among us.”

“Thank you, Mance Rayder.”  Jon nodded back, tearing off a piece of the bread and dipping it in the salt before popping it in his mouth and washing it down with a sip of the ale.  He held in the urge to cough but only barely.  Fuck but that never got easier even with practice.  “I accept my place at your fire as a guest.”

Guest-right observed, Jon sat on the simple stool offered him across the fire from the King-Beyond-the-Wall and warmed his hands by the fire, Karsi, Styr, and Tormund arranging themselves around Mance while his wife Dalla sat at his side.

“So,” Mance clapped his hands together.  “You’ve helped us not out of the goodness of your heart but to protect your own.”  He pursed his lips.  “I can respect that.  But even with being able to fight back and burning the dead, the long night is still coming.  Somehow I can’t see you being willing to help us attack the Wall, being a Stark and all.”

“I fight for the side that fights for the living.”  Jon felt a sense of destiny echoing through him as he reiterated what he’d told Mance the very first time they’d met.  “ _All_ the living.  Not just the Free Folk or the Night’s Watch or the men of the North.  Everyone.  I won’t help you kill the men of the Watch.”

“Then why have you come?”  Mance frowned.  “Why now?”

“You can’t bring the Wall down.”  Jon told him bluntly.  “You couldn’t find the Horn of Winter and a bluff won’t work.  Not with Benjen Stark still the first ranger and Jeor Mormont as Lord Commander.  Personally, I’d also pass on taking on the army of Northmen the Lord of Winterfell can muster and Free Folk wouldn’t last long against a charge of northern horse, even less well against southron cavalry.  You need another way.”

“What’s your gain in all this then?”  Styr scowled, arms folded over his brass-plated leather tunic.  “Other than to tell us what _won’t_ work to save our people.”

“To tell you what will.”  Jon retorted, holding in an eyeroll.  _Thenns_.  Good fighters, rather civilized all things considered, but stubborn as an old goat to the last man.  “Even if you found the Horn of Winter, I’d kill every last Free Folk myself before I let you bring the Wall down.  It’s magic was shaped and built to protect the realms of men from the Others.  The last real defense against it.  I’d mourn you.”  He told Mance bluntly, meeting the other man’s dark – and considering – eyes head on.  “I would.  Every last one of you.  But all the Free Folk together, all of the hundred clans, only number a quarter million souls.  Twice that populates just _one_ of the larger southron cities.  They’re my people to.”  He said simply.  “It’s a choice I’d hate to make.  It would haunt me all my days.  But I’ll help the Watch destroy the Free Folk before I’ll help you bring down the Wall.”

“That’s fair.”  Mance said mildly even as Tormund, Karsi, and Styr cursed him for the ruthless statement.  He shot another _look_ at his friends and trusted commanders.  “It is and I feel the same way about the Wall.”  He smiled strangely.  “Not the leaving us to rot and be meat in the army of the dead part, I don’t have that wolfsblood ruthlessness of your lot.  But I don’t want to bring it down: I want to shelter my people behind it and let the Others and their army crash against it like waves against a cliff-face.”

“Fair.”  Jon told him in turn, nodding slightly.  “But war won’t do it.”

“Then what?”  Tormund scoffed, rolling his eyes.  He’d changed his mind.  The omega wasn’t halfmad he was _all_ mad.  “Make peace?  With the crows and the southern lords who’ve been killing us for generations for the crime of being born on the wrong side of their precious Wall?”

“Yes.”  Jon said, tone more than a bit crisp.  “That’s exactly what I’d counsel you to do if you want to save your people.  Make peace so your women and children, your old and your sick, can hide behind the Wall, perhaps settle in the Gift, and whatever glory-mad idiots you have in your ranks can range beyond the wall and pick off wights and Others to their hearts’ content.”

Mance traded a glance with Karsi and Dalla as Styr and Tormund huffed and puffed.

“Fire works to kill wights.”  Jon told them with a sigh, already knowing that it was going to take more than one meeting and some words to sway them.  It’d taken being rendered almost entirely helpless last time for the clan elders to listen and even then a good half of them had still been willing to take their chance against the dead rather than trust a crow.  Which Jon wasn’t this time but wasn’t in a much better position as an outsider for all that he was considered a friend.  “Dragonglass is better, works on wights and Others.  Valyrian steel is best but its extremely rare.”

“Valyrian steel?”  Tormund asked, puzzled, having never heard the term before.

In answer, Jon reached to his hip and pulled his dagger – the one with the direwolf hilt that had been Lyanna’s – from its sheath and held the blade to the fire, showing how the metal rippled in the light.

“Expensive and rare,” Jon said again then put the blade away.  “It’s also called dragonsteel in some writings and legends.”

“Aye, that it is.”  Mance shook his head.  “The only swords made with it I know of at least close belong to the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch, Mormont’s Longclaw, and the ancestral Stark broadsword Ice that,” he frowned lightly.  “I think is with Brandon Stark at Winterfell otherwise with his younger brother at Moat Cailin.”

Jon filed that away quickly, hiding his shock – and interest.

His uncle had survived in this world and his uncle Ned was running a different castle altogether.

He wondered if Lady Stark had married Brandon after all then or if somehow the world had tried to pull back towards the original design and she was married to Ned.

Jon supposed he’d find out soon enough.

“Will you stay?”  Mance asked.  “I could use a man with Valyrian steel and a good head on his shoulders around here.”

“Only for a few days.”  Jon warned.  “I brought some furs and hides, rope and cordage, as a thanks for taking in Craster’s women.  I’d like to see them before I continue on.”

“Why?”  Tormund was mystified by that.  “The fight is here if you want to fight for the living.”

“Because.”  Mance said slowly, realization starting to dawn.  “It’s not just _us_ he has to convince to try for peace.  It’s all those stubborn arseholes in the south who don’t have a mouse fart’s worth of an idea of what it coming for them if the Others manage to bring the Wall down.”

“Uh huh.”  Jon’s sigh was nothing short of heavy and he knocked back the rest of his ale, needing to feel the warming in his belly instead of dread at the thought of what he was setting himself up to do.  Again.  “And of the two, you lot at least have _sense_.”

Karsi snorted a laugh.

“I think that’s the first time Tormund’s been accused of such a thing in his _life!_ ”  The rest joined her, laughing along at the joke.  Even the butt of it.  “Tormund!  Having _sense!_ ”


	6. Chapter 6

** Winter’s Wolf **

**Chapter Six: Fire and Ice**

“Are you certain you want to send him with me?”  Jon couldn’t help but ask again.

In the handful of days he’d rested and planned with Mance and his – in the south he’d call them advisors or captains – closest confidants in the same Free Folk leaders who’d been there to meet Jon that first day, he’d quickly moved to refresh/rebuild his friendship with Tormund, a goal helped along greatly by the fact that Tormund apparently was something as an unofficial protector of omegas of any gender who were unmated and also that the big ginger wasn’t afraid of Ghost like many of the adults in the camp.

Tormund, in this world, had five children: four daughters and one son; and every single one of them was an omega, a fact which from what Jon could tell was about driving the large warrior spare as the youngest, and only male omega, was unmated and had had to fend off no less than a dozen attempts at “stealing” him from some of the wilder and/or rougher Free Folk clans who weren’t wary of either Tormund or his son’s ability to fight and maim anyone who touched an omega without their wanting.

The Free Folk from what Jon had quickly noticed, no more cared about a person’s dynamic in this world than they had their gender in the old when it came to fighting or defending oneself.

Even so, with Jon wandering off into the wilds alone with only – as far as they knew – a direwolf for company, he’d gained a bit of a reputation…and an unwanted attention from those who liked strong omegas, many of whom were drawn to him more and more the longer he stayed in the encampment.

No one had tried to steal him – _yet_ – though he wasn’t fool enough to dismiss the looks shot his way or the scents he was starting to be able to pinpoint as another person who had a sexual interest in him.

Which, ick, explained his reaction when he’d arrived and that stinky alpha had crowded his space.

A few tentative questions to Karsi and Dalla regarding what was considered normal behavior among the Free Folk – which had led to a quite frank discussion that threatened to have him blushing for _days_ – let him know that such was a perfectly normal reaction of an uninterested omega towards a pushy alpha.

The snarling growl just Jon’s instinctual way of warning the smelly male away before the warnings stopped and the attacking began – which would’ve, apparently, been his next instinctual reaction if Tormund hadn’t forced the arsehole to back off when he did.

All of it – snarling, growling, hissing, other noises he might make without realizing it, even an outright attack – were considered normal behavior by the Free Folk.

Especially by an unbonded/unmated omega that was on the admittedly-independent side.

According to Karsi, if he wasn’t receptive to a particular person’s advances, he could get quite vicious in sending them off without even trying no matter their gender, age, dynamic, or any other status signifier.

His “inner omega” as Dalla had put it, didn’t give a fuck if it was an alpha male leader of a clan or the most vicious female beta in the camp or the sweetest omega maiden of either gender, if “he”, his inner omega, wasn’t interested on first meeting they weren’t going to grow more so with time as that initial reaction was so highly instinctual that he’d have to fight himself every hour of every day to have any sort of relationship with a person his inner omega wasn’t interested or was out-right repulsed by.

Dynamics, Jon was firmly convinced, were _odd_ but also helped, at least a bit, to take away from of the ambiguity when it came to interacting with others.  Jon knew on a somehow instinctual, animal level, whether a person was ‘sexually compatible’ with him or not...which was how Lyanna’s single book he’d taken on the subject put it.  Karsi flat-out told him that the Free Folk saw it as a way to know who would make the strongest children with the best chances of surviving to make children of their own.  He knew within moments of meeting someone if they had a sexual interest in him, if they were aggressive, if they were going to try and force an issue, and dozens of other things he just… _knew_ thanks to the body he’d been given on arriving in his world.

Though he’d be willing to bet that if the southerners were as willing to douse themselves in perfumes as they’d been in his old world that the fake scents might mess with that instinctual _knowing_.

Omegas were supposed to be the best at that _knowing_ that came with scent with alphas not far behind, a bit of instinct given to them perhaps to help balance out the aggression and strength that alphas gained when they presented.

None of that helped him learn all of the culture and norms that surrounded those instincts or how to respond or act with the information his nose and eyes and senses gave him, but it was a starting point.

His reputation as the Winter Wolf had led to him picking up a handful of young Free Folk who had more than a hint of hero worship in their faces following him around or the bolder ones asking him questions about where he was and what he’d done on his own or if he would teach them how to use a sword or warg if they were thought to have the talent.

He’d also attracted more than a few little ones but he thought that had more to do with Ghost than anything else.  Children, he’d had cause to learn, were often fearless in their innocence in ways that adults couldn’t be.  Ghost was quite the popular attraction to the little ones as a result, though being Free Folk young ones they knew enough to wait and approach the direwolf when Jon was around to keep him from snapping at them if he grew irritated – which he never did.

If anything, when Jon would “talk” with his companion, he got quite the warm sense of enjoyment as toddlers and little children clambered all over him and tried to catch his plume of a tail as he wagged it.

Bael, son of Tormund, and an unbonded male omega all of six-and-ten years old with summer-and-snow tanned skin complete with freckles, bright blue eyes, and his father’s ginger hair had become Jon’s shadow more than anyone.

It saddened Jon, deeply, that in his old world Tormund’s son had died in a wight attack before the Free Folk knew the trick of killing the wights and their Other masters beyond setting them on fire.

As a result, Jon was unrelentingly patient with the ginger-haired shadow following him as he hunted with Ghost or went to check on the remaining small clan of Craster’s wives and daughters who hadn’t mated into other clans if they found themselves able to stand – even enjoy – the touch of another.  Some, mainly Craster’s oldest wives, never would welcome another to their furs ever again.

If he wasn’t with the leaders of the Free Folk, Bael was on his heels.

A reason – besides wanting to get his youngest the hell _away_ from the Others, skilled fighter or not – that Tormund had approached Jon the day before with a request.

He was set to leave the next day for the Wall, perhaps never to return to the true north depending on how events proceed below the Wall.

Tormund wanted him to take his son with him.

“Tell me a better chance to get my son on the other side of that fucking wall that doesn’t involve climbing spikes.”  Tormund groused, scrubbing one hand through his beard in aggravation. 

He didn’t quite know why beyond simple instincts, but he _liked_ the pretty – if mad – Winter-Wolf.  Their friendship had been quick to form and rooted in such things as irritating the ever-loving-shit out of Rattleshirt and Tormund being fearless in the face of Jon’s wolf, but it was strong nonetheless.  There was no one he’d trust more with his youngest child and he told the other man so. 

“I know he can protect himself.”  He grumbled, coming to a quick stop in his words.  He’d never been one for fancy talk.  Cracking heads, maybe.  “I made sure of it.  He’ll still be safer with a crazy asshole like you south of the Wall than anywhere up here.”

“And if he finds a mate south of the Wall?”  Jon asked the question that’d been picking at him. 

He wasn’t blind.  Bael son of Tormund was quite pretty, not unlike his aunt – Tormund’s half-sister Ygritte who Jon once loved almost enough to abandon his duty to the Watch for – and was going to attract attention even if he wasn’t traveling with another pretty omega in Jon.  Not all omegas, despite what some tales he’d memorized from Valyria or songs he’d heard in the camp suggested, _were_ all that pretty or even attractive anymore all women were beauties and knights handsome.

Some were downright ugly.

Some were plain if pleasant to look upon.

Most, however, at the least had a smoothness or softness to their faces in particular that kept them from looking harsh or hatchet-faced like some betas and alphas could.

Jon’s softness had been chiseled away in the far north but even so he’d never managed to grow even a shadow of stubble on his face, forcing him to protect the lower-half of his face that was often unprotected by his cloak hood with a fur headwrap he’d stitched together out of rabbit and fox fur as he couldn’t reclaim his beard any more than he could Longclaw.

“Decides to mate a kneeler, raise a family?”

“Good.”  Tormund huffed, clapping Jon on his back.  “A good, soft life for my boy may not be the Free Folk way but it would be one where he was safe and happy.  What more could a sire ask?  He’ll keep anyone from stealing him that he doesn’t want to, same as he’s done here.”

“We’ll have to lie about his origins.”  Jon sighed and gave up.  “He’ll be a friend of mine from Essos.  Most Westerosi won’t know the difference once I get him out of furs and into simple armor and a cloak with a sword at his hip.”  Jon trailed off, muttering softly under his breath as he figured out how to work around this newest complication…but never with the intent of denying Tormund’s – and Bael’s – request.

Tormund had been one of his best and truest friends in the last years of his old life.

Doing this for him in this new life might not be the right way to start repaying a debt Tormund wasn’t even aware of but it was the least he could do in the memory of his old Tormund and help his new Tormund at the same time.

“Thank you for this, wolf.”  Tormund sighed, looking over at where Jon had set his ginger-shadow to fletching arrowshafts with Tormund’s sister that shared their same ginger-haired father but on a different mother.  Ygritte was a fiery one, that was certain, and had a _look_ in her eye for the Winter Wolf, but the pretty omega had never turned a look on any of the Free Folk or scented interested in them for even a quick romp.  Their loss.  He could only imagine the offspring such a strong and determined omega would throw for the right mate.  “If I could I would send every last child of every last clan with you.  As it is,” he shrugged.  “I’ll settle for what I can get.”

“I would take them if I could.”  Jon told him honestly.  “But even talking around Bael won’t be all that easy if we’re made before I get us to the other side of the Wall.  Have to try and pass him off as a member of the mountain clans in that case instead of a Essossi or a northern smallfolk.  But…”  He sighed, looking himself towards the young omega who was fletching arrowshafts with quick, nimble, practiced hands.  “If he keeps his head and sticks to the story we figure out, we should get by.”

Jon blinked, something occurring to him just then.

“Can he read or write?”

“A little.”  Tormund admitted, frowning, as he remembered what Mance had said years ago about southerners and their scribbles.  “Mance taught him and a few of the others here and there but he knows his runes.”

“That’ll help.”  Jon nodded, still thinking of what would need to be said, to be done, to pass off Bael as a northman at best and a foreigner of Ib or Lhazar at worst, with being a member of the mountain clans somewhere in between.  “We’ve a few moons to the Wall if we don’t rush and run it or any problems we might run into.  If I can teach him enough in time I might make a Braavosi out of him and all of our worries will disappear as so much smoke.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because.”  Jon smirked up at his friend.  “Braavosi have a certain reputation and it was where my mother lived out her years after my father died.  No one would think twice of me having a Braavosi friend.  But to manage it he’ll need to speak at least one form of Valyrian.”

Tormund winced at that, having only one thing to say: “Better him than me.  That horseshit sounds like singing when you do it.”

And even old half-deaf crones knew that Tormund Giantsbane was a dead-awful singer.

…

The trip from Skirling Pass to the Wall wasn’t much farther as the raven flies then from White Harbor to Winterfell, which only took a week on a decent horse to travel.

However, they were in the far north, there were no roads, and the terrains wasn’t nearly as forgiving.

Jon and Bael with Ghost still pulling a sledge of furs, hides, and supplies expected it to take at least a moon or maybe more.

Time that Jon fully intended to spend trying to get Bael as conversant in High Valyrian as possible, even if the younger omega likely wouldn’t be able to read or write it since when it came to that skill, Jon was more concerned with Bael’s abilities with common tongue over Valyrian runes if he was going to try and pass him off as Braavosi.

Ghost liked him, which was enough for Jon even if he hadn’t been Tormund’s only son, and was more than a bit entertaining with his questions.

“Dragons were _real_?”  Bael’s eyes were the size of serving platters at that.

Jon had been running the ginger through a list of words in Valyrian, correcting pronunciation as best he could, and the expected question had been just as entertaining as he’d expected it, Jon still remembering how the Free Folk had reacted to Dany’s children.

“Are real.”  Jon corrected, arching a brow.  “Haven’t been seen in many years in Westeros or Valyria, but yes, dragons are real.”

Bael blinked, barely able to fathom it.  They had their own tales in the north, of ice spiders the size of direwolves, ice dragons that spewed snow, but the fire dragons of the southerners were considered idle fancy.  Children’s tales to scare young ones into behaving.

Great monsters of fire who’d supposedly destroyed an army of Free Folk twenty generations before at the Wall.

“What do they look like?”  Bael asked, head cocked to the side as he tried to picture the great beasts.  “Do they really fly?”

“They have four limbs,” Jon lectured the younger man on dragons, often slipping in words in Valyrian to help Bael learn.

Another day came a question he’d been waiting for, though honestly he’d expected it from Mance.

“How did you know how to kill the Others?”  Bael asked as they sat quietly around a low-burning fire, the two of them settling for smoked meat since there’d been no good hunting near their trail that day.  “If you grew up across the sea?”

Now that was a question Jon knew he couldn’t give the real answer to and had found another that he thought would suit.

“My people, my sire’s people.”  He corrected himself, lest Bael think the Starks were a bunch of seers when as far as he knew only Bran had ever had skill with greenseeing.  “Sometimes have what are called _dragon-dreams_.  A hint of foresight.  Twenty generations ago a different family from Valyria used the sight of their dragon-dreamer to save them from the Doom.”  He shrugged.  “I saw the Others the day my mother died and left to come to Westeros a quarter-moon later.”

“The Doom?”  Bael asked, no doubt at all in his voice or face.  Wargs sometimes had a touch of greensight.  Not much and not of the future.  Always the present or the past from what the tales said.  So he didn’t doubt for a moment that Jon Winter-Wolf had seen the Others and how to kill them in a… _dragon-dream_.

“Ah…”  Jon frowned, trying to think of how to describe fourteen simultaneous volcanic eruptions at once to a person who had no way to understand what even one looked like.  “Fourteen mountain peaks spewed fire and molten rock at the same time.  Poisoned the air and fouled the water.  Killed every living thing in the whole of the Valyrian Peninsula across the sea where my father’s family came from.”

“How did your family survive?”  Bael asked a moment later though he still didn’t quite understand what it was Jon was speaking of he trusted that the man wasn’t lying to him.  “If everyone was killed?”

“My family lived farther north in the Valyrian lands.”  Jon told him what the journal of the original Jaerion, the brother to the Emperor-Who-Never-Was, had written.  “Near a city called Qohor.  The Doom didn’t spread that far and my ancestors survived.”

“Good fortune for the Free Folk.”  Bael eventually decided.  “We would have died crashing against the Wall or fighting the southerners or to the Others without you.”

“I don’t know about that.”  Jon muttered, blushing.  “Someone would’ve figured it out.”

“Not in time.”  Bael told him, voice quiet and dark.

Jon looked up from petting Ghost at that, taking in the serious and mournful look on Bael’s face.

“No.”  He had to admit.  “Probably not.”

And that was that.

Bael didn’t bring it up again, Jon didn’t argue what he’d done for the Free Folk, and they kept pushing ever southward.

Jon teaching Bael to use a sword at night and to speak Valyrian during the day.

Bael soaking it all up like a sponge.

Then they hit the Milkwater south of the Fist of the First Men about a week away from the Wall and all of Jon’s immediate plans crumpled like so much dust in his hands.

…

Saerax, who flew so high overhead every day that they appeared no more than a speck at best and a bird at worst in the air, nudged Jon gently but insistently first.

A dragon’s vision was not unlike that of a bird of prey from Jon’s limited practice warging into a hawk or eagle.  Much greater and more accurate than any person’s.  It included the ability similar to that of an owl to focus in on a thing far away and bring it into closer visual range, though Jon wasn’t educated enough in such things to know the word for it, making Saerax a particularly capable scout even from high in the air.

In this case, the dragon saw the trouble before even Ghost’s acute hearing and nose heard and smelt it, sending what it saw down through their bond and into Jon’s mind.

Bael looked at him askance as he suddenly started cursing, running over to Ghost and unstrapping the direwolf from the sledge, and tying the sledge to a nearby sapling as the direwolf bounded off through the forest towards the river that they were following at a distance from within the tree line.

“What did he sense?”  Bael asked, realization breaking over his face as the direwolf took off.

Wargs at times seemed rather odd or uncanny but those who knew them also knew it was merely a result of their bonds with their animal friends and companions.

At least the good ones like Jon Winter-Wolf.

The greedy or power-hungry ones like Varamyr Sixskins gave other wargs a poor name and reputation if they were all people knew of their kind.

“A problem.”  Jon told him, looking his companion over with critical eyes as he swung his bow off of his shoulder and motioned for Bael to do the same, readying his dragonglass-tipped arrows, what little of them he had left that hadn’t been used to down Others yet.  “A Ranging party overset by a group of wights with at least two Others among them.”

Bael grimaced, reaching for his own dragonglass arrows and patting the two-handed axe his father had made for him with its dragonglass blade for comfort.

“I can’t believe I’m running off to save a bunch of crows.”  Bael groused though it was good-natured.  He, at least, had never done battle with crows or southerners, one of the reasons Mance had agreed that him going off with Winter-Wolf was a good plan as there were few leaders or children of the elders who could claim the same.  If he were found out, at least they couldn’t punish him for crimes against the crows or southerners, though they might hold him accountable for every ill done them by his people.  “Don’t they have sense enough to stay south where they belong?”

Jon huffed a laugh, the pair of them eating up the distance between where he’d tied the sledge and the attack Saerax had warned him of.

“Not really.”  He told him honestly.  “Right now they’re probably more worried about Mance and his army in the Frostfangs than they are the dead, even if they believe what’s out here and not brushing it off as stories meant to spook them.”

“I still can’t believe you like them.”  This time Bael’s scowl was real and not in play.  “They’re _crows_.”

“Aye, and they’ve been killing Free Folk and Free Folk have been killing them for eight thousand years because the original ancestors of the clans were on the wrong side of the Wall when Bran the Builder raised it.”  Jon snarked.  “The Lord Commander is a good man.  Best hope the Free Folk have got of being let south of the Wall.”  He debated a moment.  “And from what I understand my mother’s brother is First Ranger.  Either of them could be with this party.  Even if they aren’t, saving them from the dead will be worth a bit of good will.”

Bael huffed a laugh at that bit of positivity, not the sort of thing Jon was usually given towards.

He didn’t want to think about the First Ranger.

The Free Folk respected and hated Benjen Stark and his second Quorin Halfhand with equal measure, some tipping one way or the other.

His father tipped towards respect, as did Mance, and Bael tended to follow their example and opinions until he had time and experience enough to form his own.

Though in this case, even if he did end up tipping towards hate instead of wary respect, he’d still try and save the First Ranger.

For the Winter Wolf and all he’d done for the Free Folk if nothing else.

…

Benjen had been suspicious for years about what really lay beyond the Wall.

He’d seen things that he couldn’t explain.

Entire tribes of wildlings wiped out.

Animals and wildlings alike fleeing south of the Wall, including the direwolf bitch who’d died to a shadowcat not a mile from Winterfell as his brother told the story two years ago when he’d gone home to check and see if any of his brothers or their men had found their missing nephew or had word of him.

A missing Stark wasn’t exactly the sort of thing they wanted bandied around the south or even by their own bannermen.

Rumors and whispers and then talk and even shouts from small ranging parties spoke of things that couldn’t be possible.

Shouldn’t be possible.

Then he and Mormont had made a decision.

Benjen as First Ranger would lead a ranging into the north to the Frostfangs and get to the bottom of all the speculation and rumor of both a wildling leader named Mance Rayder, a traitor and former sworn brother of the Night’s Watch at that, amassing an army in the mountains as well as the wild tales of the dead with glowing blue eyes wandering the night and killing all they find.

Then the bodies of Othor and Jafer Flowers were brought back, still and cold, from beyond the Wall only to rise with eyes like blue stars in the night and try to kill every man in Castle Black.

Some had fallen to the wights that were once their brothers.  Mostly men of the south who didn’t remember their nursery stories.  Fire had done for the creatures that were once Other and Jafer once one had been run through on the Lord Commander’s sword and the other hacked to pieces.

Now every body that fell that they found were burned at once and the Lord Commander sent Benjen and a dozen good rangers north to find what they could.  To see if Othor and Jafer were aberrations.  Or if they were the harbingers of something more.  Something worse.

Given that they hadn’t even made it to the Fist, let alone beyond, before being swarmed by a score of wights with blue-star eyes and a pair of creatures that seemed to command them built of leathery skin over bones with swords of pure ice in their hands mounted on dead horses with the same eyes as their – dare he say it – _foot soldiers_ , Benjen was leaning towards that something worse.

That was when it happened.

When they were swarmed and the handful of men remaining in Benjen’s command were standing back to back wielding fire brands in one hand from the campfire that had barely been set for the coming night when they were attacked and their swords in the other, that the white wolf rushed snarling from the tree line, eyes as red as blood and fangs gleaming white in the dim autumn sun and started tearing dead heads from decaying shoulders, flesh-withered arms from sockets, and rending entire dead bodies in two.

And with the wolf – a direwolf – came a pair of warriors running at his heels like the living embodiments of ice and fire.

Fire wielded a yew longbow like those favored by the wildlings, shooting off arrow after arrow through the skulls of the wights and dropping a dead man with each.

Meanwhile Ice drew a gleaming silvery bowstring on his odd grey bow, the black of the arrowhead shining viciously in the sun, and loosed it straight through – fuck, what had to be an Other – the Other’s brass and leather armor covering its chest, shattering the Other like ice and making a full half of the wights attacking Benjen and his men fall with it.

In a handful of seconds, Fire was rushing in with a dagger in hand with a rippling blade Benjen would know anywhere, wights continuing to drop all around him as he tore through them and Benjen’s men rallied to joni him in downing the dead, and Ice had another gleaming-black arrow nocked and loosed.

To give the Other credit, it was smart.

Tried to block it with a swipe of its ice blade.

But the arrow flew too fast and strong, punching straight through the Other’s chest, the dread creature’s face an image of shock, then it too was nothing more than shattered ice on the snow and its mount crumpled and the rest of the wights with it to the ground.

“Well,” Fire said, more than a bit of snark in his voice as he turned towards Ice, so dubbed in Benjen’s mind for one’s ginger hair and the other’s moonlit white with hints of silver when the sun hit it just so even through the dirt and grime from a good while without a bath.  “That was bracing.”

Ice snorted and rolled his eyes as the direwolf trotted right up to him and brushed against his side, running one hand along the flank that stood as tall as the man beside it.

“Not exactly what I’d call it Bael.”  Ice retorted, then turned – _oh fuck_ , Benjen felt a worry more than four years old crystalize in his belly – Valyrian purple eyes on the stupefied faces of the men of the Night’s Watch whose collective arses the pair had just saved.  With the fur wrap hiding the lower half of his face it was hard to be certain.  But there weren’t many in the south and none in the north of Westeros with eyes like that.  Well.  Outside of Ned’s wife and children at Moat Cailin anyway.  “We need to burn them before more Others show up and raise them again.  Once they’ve been raised it’s easier for them to do so a second time.”

Benjen paused a moment then shook off his suspicion and worry.

If Ice was who he thought he was, there was more than enough time – he hoped – to discuss the matter.

Unfortunately as he’d had cause to learn the hard way: the dead could no longer wait in preference to the living.

“You heard the man, lads.”  Benjen barked out.  “Pile ‘em up and set them ablaze then see to your cuts and make a pyre ready.  We won’t burn our lot with the things that killed them.”

“Aye.”

“Aye, First Ranger.”

“Aye, sir.”

…

“Bael.”  Jon spoke lowly as the younger omega trotted back to where Jon and Ghost were watching the crows a couple dozen paces away from the men building a pyre, the wights already piled up and burning.  “Take Ghost back to the sledge.”

“Why?”  Bael frowned, glancing between Jon and the crows.  There were only a half dozen of them.  Not anything to be worried over, really, with Ghost about to keep an eye and ear on things.

“I need to talk to the First Ranger.”  Jon told him honestly.  “And we need to get the sledge and our things back before someone or something finds it.”

“He’s not going to let me harness him.”  Bael wrinkled his nose, even as Ghost shot him a wolven grin over his huge shoulder.  “He only lets you do that.”

And they’d tried over the weeks they’d been heading south together.

“He will this time.”  Jon promised.  “Even if I have to slide into his skin to manage it.  Go on.”  He tilted his head towards the flurries of a trail they’d let in the snow.  “It’ll be fine.”

“I don’t want to leave you alone with them.”  Bael admitted, shoulders slumping a bit.  “Even if he _is_ your uncle, it doesn’t look like he knows that.  And they’re a mixed bunch.”  He shot a narrow-eyed look at the rangers.  “I don’t like how some of them look at us.”

Or smell, as he’d gotten closer to them in order to fight the wights with the dagger Jon had lent him until he found another of the dragonsteel that could be Bael’s permanently, his axe being more of a hinderance when there were – supposedly – allies in close range who might be swiped on a backswing.

“Nor I.”  Jon snorted, eyeing the form of Karl Tanner with nothing short of loathing.  “But they’re men of the Watch and the First Ranger’s problem.  If they try anything I doubt they’ll live long enough to regret it.  The Watch takes a dim view of murder and rape once their brothers have sworn their oaths.”

At least they should.

Which if his uncle was alive – and he was watching Jon closely so he knew he was – and not leading the men at Castle Black then Mormont was alive as well and the Watch still were held to their oaths rather than turned into a pack of mutineers and traitors.

Might have something to do with several Starks still breathing and running around.

Only an absolute _idiot_ or someone terrified out of their wits tried to break with the Night’s Watch as long as the Starks ruled Winterfell since it was guaranteed they’d be caught and lose their heads for it unless they ran north beyond the Wall, which carried dangers and problems of its own - especially now.

“Fine.”  Bael _almost_ pouted but as a man grown and blooded kept control of himself.  Especially in front of a bunch of crows.  “Ghost will lead me to you?”

“He will.”  Jon nodded.  “I want to move on as soon as they’ve got that pyre up and lit.  Only a suicidal fool would stay where the Others have already attacked once before the sun has even set.  Go on,” he nodded his head towards the trees, Ghost loping off but slow enough that Bael would easily catch him.  “I can take care of myself.”

Bael scoffed even as he jogged to catch up with the direwolf.

He knew that.

All of the Free Folk knew that.

No one survives so far north as the Valley of Thenn – as Jon had admitted he’d spent most of the last years there living in the caves and fighting the Others – on their own without being able to take care of themselves.

It was the principle of the thing.

Leaving one of his own with the crows.

Even on Jon’s orders…it chafed.

Still, following Jon’s orders was the agreement that’d been struck for Bael to accompany the Winter-Wolf south, so he would.

No matter how distasteful he found this particular one.

…

“Where’s your friend off to, stranger?”  Benjen asked Ice as the pale blond – as pale or paler than any Targaryen – kept watch over the pyre-building, purple eyes sharp on the tree lines of both sides of the Milkwater from a slight ridge.

Benjen had helped gather the wood and their supplies before setting the men to completing the task to speak to the stranger.  Running into a Valyrian-pale man north of the wall…such a thing was unheard of.  Having Ice and his friend Fire arrive just in time to keep Benjen’s entire ranging from being slaughtered and with a direwolf and the right weapons to kill the Others besides…it had his more superstitious men speaking in low tones of omens and spirits and the Children of the Forest.

His more suspicious pair that had survived the attack, however, had rightly pointed out that both of their saviors were dressed as wildlings, even if Ice wore a fine black woolen cloak and Fire used a dagger that unless Benjen had gone blind _and_ stupid in his old age was Valyrian steel.

That one, the ginger, had disappeared into the trees with the direwolf wasn’t helping with the mutters from those suspicious souls – or even Benjen himself, for all that he _thought_ he knew who he might be dealing with in Ice.

“I left our sledge behind when we heard the battle.”  Jon said, tone bland.  “Bael went to retrieve it.  Ghost will lead him to us once we depart.”

Bael must be Fire then, Benjen quickly realized, with Ghost being the direwolf.

Considering the coloring and how quiet the animal was – Benjen hadn’t heard him make a sound either during the attack or afterward – he found it rather fitting.

Though he got stuck on another part of what the blond said.

“Depart?”  He frowned.

“Depart.”  Jon slowly blinked, though he didn’t know it echoing a motion Saerax had made thousands of times.  “You’ve been attacked once by a hunting party of wights led by Others here.  We need to get a few miles between this place and us before stopping for the night.  I assumed you would want to do the same.”

If it wasn’t Benjen’s plan, Jon would have to seriously reconsider his estimation of his uncle’s intelligence – at least in his world.

Maybe his brain had been rotted by the alpha mentality now that his uncle was close enough for him to mark his dynamic.

Benjen cursed softly, scrubbing one hand over his face.

“You’re right.”  He groaned, looking over the tree line and the horizons at north and south with wary eyes.  “Of course you’re right.  I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.  If it were wildlings…”  He sighed, shaking his head.

“The wights might be dead.”  Jon told him mildly, arching a reproving brow.  “But they retain a bit of their memories and drives from what I can tell.  And the Others are something else entirely.  Intelligent as any man and maybe more intelligent than most.  You can’t treat them like any other foe because they’re _not_ like any other foe you or anyone has faced in eight thousand years, but some precautions should still be taken regardless.”

“You’re Jaerion Vaelarys, aren’t you?”  Done castigating himself, Benjen asked the question that’d been dancing on his tongue since he’d seen the young – omega, now that he was closer but not one he felt anything but protective of, which reinforced the point – male’s eyes.

“My friends call me Jon.”  A smile twitched at the corner of his lips even as the remaining black brothers called out to Benjen to light the pyre.  “ _Uncle_ Benjen.”

“ _We_ ,” Benjen pointed a stern finger at his unrepentant – and bloody impossible to track down which made a _lot_ more sense now, no matter what Ned had to say about the difficulties in finding one boy in all the world – nephew.  “Are going to have a talk.”

“As soon as we make our next camp.”  Jon promised, nodding his chin down towards the pyre.  “Provided Bael, Ghost, and I are all welcome.”

“Aye,” Benjen snorted, rolling his eyes.  “And you would be after saving our arses even if you _weren’t_ my blood, child.  We leave as soon as the pyre is lit and the words are said.”

“Then you better get to it.  The sun is nearly down and I don’t have nearly as good of night vision as Ghost.”

…

 


	7. Chapter 7

** Winter’s Wolf **

**Chapter Seven: Lone Wolves**

Benjen watched as the firelight played off of the face of his nephew as the two kept watch, having silently agreed to hold their talk until Benjen’s few remaining rangers and Jon’s friend Bael were asleep.

He had no idea where the direwolf was, the massive creature having wandered away with a glance and a scratch behind his ears from Jon.

In the light provided by the fire, Benjen could clearly see the signs of a long time in the wilds on his nephew’s face and hair, grime hidden by the long braid silver-white hair had been twined into, streaks of dirt collecting behind the lad’s ears and the base of his neck despite attempts to wash and stay clean.

“Where have you been all this time, Jerion – Jon,” he corrected himself at the _look_ that was shot his way by purple eyes under white-blond brows.  “We’ve been looking for you almost five years now, since your message arrived at Winterfell.  All without a word.”  His tone turned chiding.  “You’ve worried a few lines onto the lines of all your uncles’ faces, my lad, not just my own and added some silver to Ned and Brandon’s beards with them.”

“I should apologize as I didn’t think you would worry over me, let alone search.”  Jon shrugged, wincing a bit.  Gods, he truly _hadn’t_ meant to worry anyone let alone his uncles.

It just had never occurred to him that they might worry over a boy they’d never met in the first place.

“One boy, alone in the world as far as we knew?”  Benjen’s tone was nothing short of incredulous.  “Why _wouldn’t_ we have worried over you?  That we didn’t know where you planned to travel or with who or if you even had any means, certainly didn’t help matters.”

“Sorry.”  Jon ducked his head, feeling well and truly scolded in a way he hadn’t since…his uncle Benjen last did it on top of the Wall at Castle Black, actually.  “I’m speaking true when I say I didn’t intend to worry you, uncle.  I can take care of myself, have been for years.”

“Aye, I can see that.”  Benjen’s voice turned wry, shooting a significant look towards the strange bow that was laying ready at his nephew’s side and what he’d be willing to venture was Valyrian steel sheathed at Jon’s hip from the decoration of the hilt.  “And I’m glad that we were wrong and you weren’t as alone or without means as you could’ve been.  That doesn’t mean I don’t want an answer to my original question, man-grown of eight-and-ten…?”

“Almost.”  Jon nodded, looking back up from his sheepish position.  “Last day of the second turn of the year is my nameday.”

“Ah, just over three turns to go then.”  Benjen nodded, making a note of the date.  If he knew a damn thing about Brandon, his eldest brother was going to want to make a to-do out of it for the lad, introduce him to the northern lords, and so on.  As it was, he already would need to send out a pair of ravens to Winterfell and Moat Cailin to inform his brothers that he’d finally located their little lost wolf.  Though how the boy would take to suddenly being one of a large – and ever-growing – pack rather than a lone wolf remained to be seen.  “Have you spent all this time since your mother’s death beyond the wall?  You were no stranger to killing Others and their fighting habits from what I could see.”

And if so: by all the seven hells _why_?

“Not _all_ of it.”  Jon sidestepped that a bit.  And it wasn’t even a lie.  It’d taken him a few turns to even manage to make it north of the Wall.  “I was grieving.  Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“What in the _seven hells_ ,” Benjen cursed, burying his face in his gloved hands.  “Made going beyond the wall seem _like a good idea_?”

By all the gods, the boy was just like his mother and certain to turn the uncles’ hair as white as his own with his antics if ranging in the far north was what qualified in his mind as a _good idea_.

“Because,” Jon dropped his voice, ready to give his excuse for his temporary exile once again.  Hopefully it would only get easier and more believable with practice as he foresaw himself getting quite a bit of it as he’d have to tell his tale at least twice more by his counting: once to the Lord Commander at Castle Black and once to his uncles at Winterfell.  Perhaps even again if his uncle Ned wasn’t at the seat of House Stark when Jon managed to make his way there.  “Have…”  He tried his best to sound tentative, just a bit distrusting of his new relationship, though he wasn’t certain if he struck the right tone or not.  Downside of his exile: he was _very_ out of practice for dealing with people.  “Have you heard of dragon dreams?”

Benjen cursed under his breath, shaking his head and half-wishing he’d never asked.

“I’m from Westeros, lad.”  Benjen drawled.  “Thanks to Daenys the Dreamer saving the arses of House Targaryen as the story goes, there aren’t many souls in this land that _hasn’t_ heard of dragon dreams.”

Jon made a face that was only _half_ an act at the mention of House Targaryen.

He never _had_ come to terms with originally being the scion of House Targaryen in his first life and then he’d been made a part of another Valyrian line entirely in his new one – a line that didn’t think _well_ of House Targaryen from his ancestor’s tales.

To the original Jaerion Vaelarys, whose brother was the Emperor-Who-Never-Was, House Targaryen had been viewed much like the Starks, with their heritage of kingship spanning eight thousand years as Kings of Winter, saw young houses like Houses Tully, Tyrell, and Baratheon: as upstarts without the same depth of tradition and heritage to back their rise to among the Great Houses of Westeros.

Opportunists, perhaps, trying to leverage their abilities as dragonlords against the much more powerful houses of the two-score clans of dragonlords who unofficially ruled the Valyrian Freehold, or inbred madmen at worst.

Valyrians _did_ allow many practices that were normally sanctioned either by law or religion, including incest and bloodmagic, but that didn’t mean that they all agreed that such things were _wise_.

To House Vaelarys, while keeping their blood pure was vitally important as it was to any clan of dragonlords, that was merely within the bounds of only mating and breeding and wedding with other Valyrians and preferably dragonlords, not marrying as closely as the Targaryens were known to do unless there was a strong instinctive draw between the would-be mates that proved out they’d breed strong and true children.

Not the forced matches between brother-and-sister that Jon knew from his old world had happened between his own paternal grandparents: Rhaella and Aerys.

He hoped that with – presumably, Rhaegar – Westeros still being in possession of a Targaryen King that his one-time-sire had cut out that bullshit after seeing firsthand how miserable his parents had been if this world had followed the same path at all regarding who married whom as if his history was right then several immediately preceding the disastrous pair of Rhaegar’s parents had all been love matches featuring Targaryen princes and/or kings with brides from House Dayne, Blackwood, and Targaryen respectively.

“The day my mother died I had one of dead rising with eyes like blue stars.”  Jon blew out a heavy breath.  “Figures that seemed nearly sculpted from living ice tearing through all in their path.  Of dragonglass and fire and dragonsteel bringing them low.  Of the dead crashing again and again against the Wall to no avail.  Of a quarter-million people dressed in furs and bronzed armor dying only to rise again as an army of the dead.”  His haunted gaze caught Benjen’s horrified grey.  “Of the Long Night, or so I’ve heard it called in these lands.  I had to see.  I had to know.  I’d never had one before, you see.  Nor one since.”  His laugh was low-pitched and bitter.  “One was enough.”

“Gods, lad,” Benjen shook his head slowly, not wanting to believe it but…if what his nephew said was true then he’d been beyond the wall for years and survived.  A feat he wouldn’t have said any foreigner – Lyanna’s son or no – could have done even with a direwolf and a friend on his side and traveling with him.  He frowned, a thought occurring to him.  “Why did you go yourself?  Why not come to the Watch?”

“Would they have believed me?”  Jon arched his brows high.  “I had no idea my uncle was a member of the Watch and the tales told of them in Braavos…aren’t kind to say the least.  Taking my chances with the wights and the Free Folk seemed like a better idea.”  He jerked a shoulder.  “Now I know how to kill them and know that if we want to survive – _any_ of us, then we have to stand together, all of us…that and keep the Wall standing.”

Benjen held in a snort.

Keep the Wall standing?

What nonsense was this?

“Were it so easy to bring it down, lad, the wildlings would’ve managed it over the last eight thousand years since it was raised.”  He noted drily, tossing a nearby twig into the fire and watching it flare and spark.

“Maybe so.”  Jon shrugged, not bothered by the disbelief.  Benjen didn’t know him, wouldn’t trust him at all if it weren’t for how they met and Jon’s status as his nephew.  He’d learn that Jon wasn’t one for jokes or hyperbole when it came to serious matters.  In time.  “But Others and wights aren’t the Free Folk.  They’re something more.  The Wall is magic but so are they.  I wouldn’t be so certain that there’s nothing in the world that could bring it down.”

Considering that Jon knew of two things that could do it off the top of his head, he felt rather justified in his stance, thank you very much.

“Now I’ve seen, now I know, now I leave.”  Jon continued.  “I’d like to speak with your Maester to send a few messages when we reach Castle Black, try and talk sense into your Lord Commander, but if the Long Night is coming, _not a soul_ in Westeros is ready for it.  I have to at least try and warn them even if some won’t be convinced even if they were staring down a wight themselves.”

Since Cersei had wanted to be queen so dearly that she’d risk all of Westeros dying in the war against the Others, he felt particularly justified for thinking so lowly of some of the people in power.

Things wouldn’t have changed _that_ much.

There would still be imbeciles at every level of power and prestige.

Navigating _around_ them was going to be the challenge since trying to cull them all outright wasn’t a useful use of his time short of bundling them all up and delivering them to the Night King with his regards for solving a problem for him by turning them wight so he could kill them without remorse.

“Aye, that can be done.”  Benjen agreed.  “Get some sleep, lad.  We’ll talk more on the trail back to Castle Black.”

…

The men of the Watch weren’t particularly _pleased_ to have to walk all the way back to Castle Black but as their garrons spooked at the arrival of the dead they didn’t have much choice.

Bael haunted the rear of the group or went off hunting, staying near Ghost and Jon whenever possible, visibly anxious – at least to Jon’s eyes who knew his father well and had gotten to know him over the weeks they’d been traveling together – to be around so many strange crows despite all of Jon’s assurances that his uncle would keep them in line.

Or that Jon himself would.

How his friend glared at one lanky, ferret-looking one the others called _Tanner_ when the beta wasn’t looking Jon’s way didn’t exactly help ease Bael’s heart.

There was a story there, he knew it, but for the life of him he couldn’t puzzle it out.

Still, they practiced Bael’s Valyrian quietly around the campfire just a bit apart from the others – they were the only omegas and took what even Jon’s uncle considered sensible precautions, especially with having Ghost keep guard between them and the non-related crows – every evening and night while during the walks in the daylight Jon spoke with his uncle about all kinds of things, educating them – though the alpha didn’t know it – on how things were done in the south.

At least as far as the northern kingdom of the south was considered anyway.

“Are my other uncles married?”  Jon asked that first morning as they trudged along the tree line in sight of the Milkwater.  “Do they have children?”

“Aye, they’re both wed, your uncle Ned both married in the southron fashion and mated as well.”  Benjen smiled.  It was the first time Jon had shown any interest in anything outside of keeping the world alive through the Long Night.  A promising sign.  “Your uncle Brandon is married to Catelyn Tully and they have four children: Thorin, Brandon’s heir, Sansa, Minisa, and Bennon.  He’s Lord of Winterfell and while Catelyn serves as his chatelaine, as she’s not mated to him according to northern law and tradition is not considered Lady Stark or Lady of Winterfell.”  Benjen felt correct in warning the lad since otherwise he’d walk right into a dangerous situation that was the ongoing cold war between his outrageously stubborn and vengeful brother and Brandon’s icy, proper wife.

Jon held in both a smile and a snicker.

It wasn’t well done of him.

Not at all.

But he couldn’t help feeling a deep sense of satisfaction that the woman who made his childhood fucking miserable with her frosty glares and teaching Sansa to be a right little brat towards anyone “lesser” had gotten a bit of comeuppance in this life.

“How did that happen?”  Jon frowned in honest confusion – though he had an idea based on what he knew about the events preceding Robert’s Rebellion in his first life.

Benjen huffed a bit.

“Your grandfather had southron ambitions fostered by his damn Maester,” he snorted.  “Brandon sent him off to the Watch as soon as he was made Lord of Winterfell and had a new Maester sent from the Citadel, one who knew their place in the North was to heal the sick and injured and help educate his children not meddle in the lord’s affairs.  Maester Walys took over as Maester at the Shadow Tower and Maester Luwin keeps any southron ideas he might have behind his teeth.”

As Walys had tried to talk Rickard into brokering Benjen into an arrangement with a much-younger Arianne of Dorne, he felt right in his ongoing satisfaction that instead the fucker had to deal with stern Denys Mallister for the rest of his days.

“Walys helped broker the matches of Brandon to Catelyn and your mother,” Benjen shot a look at his nephew.  “To Robert Baratheon.  Your mother escaped.  Your uncle…”

“Not so much.”  Jon grimaced.  Yes, he supposed without his grandfather dying before the match could be finalized through southron marriage or his uncle dropping dead, short of following his sister into self-exile there wasn’t much Brandon would’ve been able to do.  “That doesn’t sound like a happy arrangement for anyone involved.”

Benjen snorted derisively. 

“Southron ways.  Especially among the noble houses, short of flat-out repulsion they broker arrangements between their children rather than allow them to find and mate a spouse of their own choosing.  Your uncle Ned, now.  He found his Ashara at Harrenhal before your grandfather could pick a “suitable” bride for him in the southron way.  Brandon gave them Moat Cailin when your grandfather died and my brother and his lady have spent the last ten years building it up and raising your cousins Robb, Arya, and Rickon.” 

He laughed, face lightening from the dark contemplations of the fate his father had handed his brother in Catelyn Tully.  At least she was more beautiful and steadier than her sister though, it had to be said.  No matter how Brandon liked to rage over his “entrapment” with a southron wife, it could’ve been much worse.  Lysa Tully for one…or Cersei Lannister. 

“Poor blighters got stuck with twins in the first go and if ever there was a Stark girl that took after another, it’s your cousin Arya and your mother.  You’d think Arya was your mother’s twin, not Robb’s.”

Jon blinked, thinking that over.  If Robb and Arya were twins, then his little sister was much older in this life than she’d been in the last.  If that is, if they were born around the same time as Robb and Jon had been in the first world.  Though at least he knew Arya would look the same – or close to it.

They’d all heard enough growing up how much in looks and behavior Arya Stark was to their “aunt” Lyanna.

Though perhaps having a different mother than Catelyn Tully would soften some of the rough edges Arya had always taken on to defend herself against the weight of her mother’s high expectations when it came to the proper behavior for a lady.

“I’m sure you’ll meet them all.”  Benjen clapped him on the back.  “And all the lords of the North and some of their children besides.  Brandon might not be much for southerners because of our father’s plots but he does like a good party and most of our family’s vassals adore their wild wolf of a Warden.”

“Party?”  Bael perked up from Jon’s side where he’d been listening closely – and with more than a bit of bafflement over this strange idea of _arranging_ matches and wedding with someone who wasn’t your mate.  _Southerners_.

“Aye.”  Benjen nodded, grinning.  “Have to celebrate the return of one of our pack, now don’t we?  Winter isn’t yet here, and what it will bring with it aside, it’ll be a good excuse to call the Stark banners into one place without worrying the southern lords that we’re plotting against them or some rot.”

Jon just sighed and nodded, conceding the point.

With all the political backbiting and sniping and plotting that went on in the Seven Kingdoms, any excuse to gather the lords of the North would be better than nothing at all, lest the Targaryen King start to grow nervous and cause problems they really didn’t need with the Night King stirring.

“Hmm.”  Bael hummed in pleasure.  “I love a party.”

“ _Considering who your father is,_ ” Jon murmured in High Valyrian, smiling wryly when Bael managed to swipe at him, having understood all of his words.  _“I’m not surprised.”_

_“Asshole.”_

_“Pretty boy.”_

_“You’re one to talk, Winter Wolf.”_   Bael snorted, rolling his eyes in exasperation as Benjen watched them with raised brows and the other crows just blinked and muttered in confusion.  _“Prettier than any of my sisters and me besides.”_

Jon grimaced.  Don’t remind him.

Bael cackled, pleased as punch at having won the minor play of words even in the strange dragon tongue, and sauntered off into the forest to do a spot of hunting.

“What was that about?”  Benjen asked, his Valyrian having grown more than rusty after fifteen years with the Watch where he used Old Tongue and Common far more often.  He thought he’d caught maybe two or three words out of the whole thing.

“Just banter.”  Jon told him, still smiling.  “I try and use my mother tongue when possible, same as Bael, especially in this land where it’s rare to hear.”

“Go to King’s Landing or Dragonstone and you’ll hear as much Valryian as you can stomach, lad.”  Benjen advised him.  “Your father really was Valyrian then?”

“Aye, that he was.”

…

The _looks_ Jon, Bael, and Ghost were treated to a week or so after meeting up – and saving the asses of – Benjen’s ranging party when they arrived at Castle Black gave Jon uncomfortable flashbacks to when he’d led the Free Folk through the Wall after Hardhome.

Hard eyes and hard faces greeted them, while the more jumpy black brothers stayed well away from Ghost even as they goggled at the sight of him.

It wasn’t everyday they saw a direwolf after all, even with what his uncle had told him of Ghost having company with his cousins’ companions.

Some things no matter how different this world was stayed the same as his old one.

This time the direwolf bitch had whelped seven pups rather than six.

She’d been downed by a shadowcat and not a stag.

But still, even with everything that was _different_ in his world so much was still the same.  The current generation – Jon’s generation – of Stark children all had a companion in a direwolf.  Half of them were mothered by Catelyn Tully.  Some of them had the Stark look while others according to his uncle took after their mothers.

Rhaegar Targaryen still married – though this time it was a mateship, if not a particularly strong one from what gossip Benjen had heard over the years – Elia Martell and _she_ in turn still died while her children were young, though in this world in childbed with twins of all things than to rape and murder.

His mother still ran away rather than marry Robert Baratheon – who incidentally still married Cersei Lannister.

Though, if what Benjen knew was still accurate, then they only had one son who sounded an awful lot like a bastard blacksmith Jon once knew and not a trio of lion cubs pretending to be stags.

The differences in the worlds were even more striking when he stumbled over one – often lulled by the similarities into a bit of complacency even with the hurdle of dynamics to overcome – than the things that had stayed the same or were similar enough to almost be the same with dynamics taken into account.

Jaime Lannister mated and married the “Fair Maid” of House Whent at the tourney of Harrenhal rather than join the Kingsguard.

Aerys the Mad King was deposed by a Great Council in favor of his son at the same tourney as for some reason Jon didn’t have enough information to discern at the moment, Varys didn’t come to Westeros as a spymaster until the reign of Rhaegar rather than during the latter years of Aerys’s rule and therefore wasn’t around at the time to warn the King that his son was plotting to force his abdication with the Wardens and the Lords Paramount and even some of his own Kingsguard.

Honestly, what surprised Jon the most perhaps was how much Benjen knew about much of the south and their antics insofar as it was connected to the Great Houses or the ruling family.

Though with a different brother in charge at Winterfell and Ned married at Moat Cailin, perhaps he was kept better informed by sheer virtue of – if Jon understood things right – his uncle Ned’s lady wife being the younger, favored sister of Ser Arthur Dayne who was said even in Jon’s first world to be the closest and oldest friend of Rhaegar Targaryen even before he joined the Kingsguard at a young age.

By the same token, the Lady Ashara was also once one of the late Queen Elia’s ladies-in-waiting, so if any member of House Stark was going to be knowledgeable about the goings on of the south, it was her.

When he thought about it that way, Benjen’s knowledge wasn’t so odd as he’d always been closest to Ned while it had been said that Brandon and Lyanna were closer still.

Age gaps and wolfs blood from what Jon could figure, younger siblings banding together against the wild natures of their elders and such.

“The more things change,” Jon murmured under his breath as he caught sight of Sam hovering just behind Maester Aemon, still sent away by his father, still a bit of a heavy man with a sweet face.

“What was that?”  Bael asked, eyeing all the crows around him as he felt an itch between his shoulder blades.  As if someone had him down their arrow sight.

He blinked as he spotted an old blind man with a ring of snow white hair.

Bael truly was south now.

In the north he’d never seen someone so old and infirm up and wandering about in all his life.

Few Free Folk lived so long, especially once their vision started to go bad.

“Nothing, Bael.”  Jon shook off his introspection.  “Depending on what magic my uncle works with the Lord Commander,” and it did Jon’s heart _good_ to see the pair of the Old Bear and Benjen standing with Maester Aemon in discussion while they waited to be either welcomed or shoved off to Moletown.  “We’ll either have to walk a few more miles before resting or we’ll have a room in the guest house.”

“Might prefer the walk.”  Bael muttered, scowling when one of the younger crows leered at them.  “Might be safer.”

Ghost let out a low growl at the leerer, Jon huffing a bit of a laugh as the – beta, he thought – version of Rast jumped about a foot in the air and scarpered off.

“Nah,” Jon smirked as the black brothers almost as one shifted their gazes away from the three of them as Mormont and his uncle clasped arms and Benjen strode back over to them.  “I think we’ll manage just fine either way.”

…

“You saw them, too?”  Lord Commander Mormont was just as gruff and straightforward as Jon remembered him.

They were sitting in the Lord Commander’s study in Castle Black, him, Bael, the Lord Commander, Benjen, Maester Aemon, and Sam to assist the Maester the day after the ranging party had arrived and Benjen had given his report to the Lord Commander.

Never had a hot bath felt so good, except maybe the first one in the hot springs of the Valley when Jon had finally made it there, let alone a lumpy mattress stuffed with ticking on a rope frame.

Bael’s groan sinking onto the other small bed in the room given them had been nothing short of obscene, leading to Jon teasing him about the younger man obviously finding _some_ things in the south to his liking after all despite all his bitching and griping about crows.

“I spent the last four years – give or take,” Jon explained.  “Fighting them and figuring out how to kill them.  The Long Night is coming, I saw it but I didn’t believe it.  Not until I saw them for myself.  The Others can somehow call the dead to life and the dead don’t tire.  They don’t rest or feel hunger or pain.”

“Then how do we beat them?”  Mormont pressed.  “Fire isn’t a very efficient weapon, even if we’re only dealing with a say a score of wights and no Others.”

“Why do you say that, Lord Commander?”  Sam asked, puzzlement on his face.  He’d been tasked with reading all Castle Black had on the subject of the White Walkers and wights but there really wasn’t much to be found.

“I remember my stories from when I was a boy, lad.”  Mormont harrumphed.  “Most northmen will.  The Others are said to burn so cold that they bring storms and blizzards with them and can snuff out a fire with the wave of a hand.  Hardly makes an effective weapon.”

“The Others _are_ the key.”  Jon nodded.  He’d known that ever since Hardhome.  “Dragonglass and Valyrian steel will kill them if you strike a killing blow.  Valyrian steel will also stand up to their ice weapons when regular steel will break. Kill an Other and any dead it commands will fall but will still be susceptible to being controlled by another of the Others if not burned.”

“First Mance, now this.”  Mormont shook his head in disgust.  “Can’t fight the living and the dead at the same time.  Not with our numbers.”

“Then don’t.”  Bael spoke up from where he was propped against the far wall by the door, arms crossed over his chest.  “Make peace with the Free Folk instead.”

“Aye,” Jon said, voice low but strong.  “He’s the way of it.  Mance has spent his life since leaving the Watch bringing together all the clans beyond the wall.  They’re no different than the mountain clans of the north, just were on the wrong damn side of this thing when it was raised up.  A hundred thousand fighters to man the Wall against the army of the dead and that plus half again in noncombatents to populate the Gift and help break the dependence of the Watch on the southern lords.”  He arched a brow at the shocked look on both the faces of the Lord Commander and his own uncle, Sam and unsurprisingly Maester Aemon looking speculative while Bael simply rolled his eyes.

The young fighter didn’t like the idea of manning the Wall or working a farm to give a tithe to the Watch to no surprise.

But he was also a realist, not unlike his father, and knew it was the best shot his people had at survival.

“This isn’t about friendship.”  He paraphrased a speech he gave to the Free Folk once upon a time.  “Or forgiveness for the evils the watch and the Free Folk have done each other.  It’s about surviving what is coming and every man, woman, and child that dies North of the Wall and isn't burned is another body in the army of the dead.”  He stared between the senior leaders of the Watch.  “I don’t know about you, but I’d rather have a quarter million Free Folk settling into the Gift until the Long Night is over than a quarter million foot soldiers to face on a battlefield.”

“So speaks a descendant of the Fourteen.”  Aemon Targaryen announced, more than a bit amused.  “I can hear that strong vein of pragmatism has rooted deeply in you, young Vaelarys.”

“Aemon Targaryen,” Jon nodded in respect though the blind maester wouldn’t see it – the others certainly did, that same deep well of respect and caring for the wise old man coming through in his voice.  “It’s an honor, truly, though our families have had their differences in the past, a man honorable enough to hold to his vows rather than mount the Iron Throne has long been held in the highest regard by my father and myself.”

“The Fourteen?”  Sam blinked, never having heard that particular descriptor before, though it was clear the First Ranger’s nephew was of strong Valyrian descent.

Aemon gave a bit of a scolding sigh.

“You need to brush up on your pre-Doom Valyrian history, Master Tarly.”  Aemon scolded though it was warm and amused.  “The Fourteen were the highest of the high in Valyria, even among the two-score houses of dragonlords who battled for true control of the Freehold, and were known for ruthless pragmatism.”

“Meanwhile,” Jon smiled ruefully.  “The Targaryens and their supporters: Velaryons, Celtigars, Qoherys, and so on; were seen as idealists and dreamers.”

“Aye, that’s all well and good.”  Mormont got them back on track.  “But how do you propose we go about makin’ peace with the bloody Free Folk?  Let alone clear it with the northern lords?”

“Technically,” Jon pointed out drily.  “What the northern lords – or the southern lords for that matter – think doesn’t count for a mouse fart when it comes to the management of the lands of the Gift and the New Gift.  Those are – unless I’m truly mistaken being a foreigner – supposedly under the sole control of the Watch.  And the Watch has never been beholden to any lords or kings.  _You_ , Lord Commander, are the only one whose opinion really matters in this case.  As for how,” he cocked his head.  “You have a decent enough relationship with a few of the Free Folk.  I’m sure one of them would be willing to run a message to Mance.”

“You’re mad.”  Mormont sighed heavily, rubbing one hand over his brow.  “But you’re right.  I don’t fancy fighting an army of a quarter million dead any more than I do a hundred thousand Free Folk.  But someone is going to have to explain all this to the lords,” he shot a _look_ at Benjen.

“What?  Why me?”  Benjen sat up from where he’d been slouched and observing throughout the meeting.

“Because you brought this lost wolf in from the cold with his mad ideas.”  Mormont told him, not about to take any guff from the younger man, even if he was a Stark.  “He’s your kin that makes him your problem.”

“I wouldn’t call you a lost wolf, Jon.”  Bael tossed out there while Sam coughed to hide a laugh at the bickering taking place between the Lord Commander and the First Ranger.  “A lone wolf, maybe.”

“Does it really count because of Ghost?”  Jon asked, cocking his head to the side with a wry grin on his face.  “I don’t think it does.”

“That’s settled then.”  Mormont rose, having dealt with his occasionally fractious First Ranger and given him official orders to speak to his brother and the other lords on behalf of the Watch.  “I’m assuming you lads will be going with him?”

“Aye, if he doesn’t mind a detour.”  Jon rose smoothly to his feet.  “Last night your Maester was good enough to allow me use of ravens to Ironwrath and Braavos.  I’ll need to venture to Eastwatch to meet with a representative from the Iron Bank in a turn or so.”

“That’ll be fine.”  Mormont waved it off.  “Taking a ship from Eastwatch to White Harbor will be faster than riding for Winterfell anyway, even if it isn’t as direct a route.  You lads can bunk in the guest quarters and hunt in the Gift in the meantime with your wolf, any extra meat for the cooks will be appreciated.”

Jon, knowing well how the system of tithe worked in supporting Castle Black – not unlike how the Free Folk pooled resources to keep the aging, young, and infirm fed and cared for – simply nodded his thanks before pushing Bael out of the study ahead of him.

Now he just had to keep his troublesome – and hotheaded – new friend from killing crows for a fortnight.

Joy of joys.


	8. Chapter 8

** Winter’s Wolf **

**Chapter Seven: The Value of Valyrians**

“Your nephew is a rare one, Benjen.”  Jeor, who’d grown to be one of Benjen’s greatest friends in the time they’d served together on the Wall, both called by what they felt was their duty to guard the realms of men – though at the time they hadn’t fully realized from _what_ – noted as they stood on a walkway above the training ground two days before the First Ranger was to depart.

Benjen would be going, it’d been decided, with his nephew’s small party to Eastwatch and thence to Winterfell.

Three mouths to tell the same story would be better than one and the lad with his strange manners and silver-white hair had the right of it when he’d protested that as a foreigner he’d never be taken as seriously as another northman, even with his striking way of turning a phrase when he felt like it.

Below in the training yard was the object of Jeor’s observation in the same place and doing the same thing as all the days between his arrival and likely his departure when he wasn’t haunting the Maester’s tower at night for books and reading or out hunting with his friend – who Jeor in no way believed was _actually_ a Braavosi for all that the average man of the Watch might swallow the lie – training.

Training with the recruits.

Training with his friend.

Training alone.

Training with Benjen.

Training with anyone really that the lad could convince to step into the ring with him.

And as the Vaelarys boy was as quick to hand out instructions and help for form and stances and holds as he was to ring a recruit’s head like a bell, many did though as time passed and not a man in Castle Black could match him – even their Master at Arms Ser Waymar Royce – they stepped into the training ring with much more respect and caution than the reckless pups had the first days the boy had taught his little lessons on swordwork.

Jaerion Vaelarys was young, it was true, even if he was older than his friend and many recruits to the Watch.

But he was as good a fighter as any Jeor had seen in his lifetime, as good as his uncles were all known to be, and as quick with his Valyrian bastard sword as any legend of Aemon the Dragonknight.

That was the Valyrian in him, if Jeor had to guess.

Northmen ran towards bulk and strength, especially the likes of the Mormonts and Starks and Umbers where the Old Blood was strongest whether an alpha, beta, or omega.

Valyrians, now, from what Mormont had seen himself of Rhaegar Targaryen when he was a pup of a crown prince rather than a man grown, widower, and King, _they_ were made for reach and speed with their long limbs and lean bodies to go with their silver or golden hair, purple eyes, and moon-pale skin.

As if Maester Aemon’s accounting was correct and Jaerion Vaelarys was even _more_ Valyrian in blood than any man or woman in Westeros, it stood to reason that Benjen’s nephew was a quick and wily bastard to fight, omega or no.

Still and all, while he appreciated the talented fucker teaching his lads a thing or two, he wouldn’t be sad to see the backs of a pair of pretty – and distracting with it – omegas with their direwolf guard.

He almost felt sorry for Brandon Stark for the trouble that was headed his way.

 _Almost_.

Considering how much trouble the wild wolf had been in his day, Mormont felt it only fitting that a bit of his own headaches that’d been visited upon Jeor’s friend Rickard was being repaid in the form of Rickard’s grandson.

“He’s better than Ned or Brandon.”  Benjen smiled at the sight of Jon having another practice spar with his redheaded friend.  The two tended to trade off weapons, Jon helping improve Bael’s swordwork then Bael showing Jon the best way to use his two-handed axe, and so on.  They moved smoothly, nearly perfectly in sync at times.  It almost made Benjen want to see them at a tourney as if teams were allowed in the melee the pair would be devastating to watch.  “Even now as grown men in their prime, not merely when they were his age.”  He shook his head, memories of the only tourney he’d ever attended flashing through his mind.  Memories of Harrenhal.  “Might even be better than Rhaegar or Arthur Dayne and those two have been neck-and-neck for almost thirty years now.”

Jeor’s face darkened.

“That’s what happens when you go out and fight actual battles instead of playing at war.  Your nephew is likely the most well-blooded lad of his age – of any dynamic.  He’s going to give that cold Cat of your brother’s fits.”

Benjen laughed along with his friend.  “I know.  Almost wish I had a way to capture her face and show you the likeness of the first time that Tully trout tries to haul one of the best swordsman I’ve ever seen out of the practice yard and into the sewing room.”

“Gods be good.”  Jeor guffawed, slapping Benjen hard on the back and nearly knocking him into the railing.  “That would be a sight to keep me warm through the Long Night, I can’t deny.  Why your father listened to that meddling maester of his and not his friends and vassals I’ll never know.”  Jeor spat out onto the snow.  “A waste of many lives is all that’s come from encouraging _relations_ with the southerners instead of sticking with our own – my boy’s included.”

“Aye.”  Benjen’s gaze was mournful as he looked down at the only piece of his sister left alive.  “Aye, that it was.”

…

“Don’t, Tanner.”  Ser Waymar Royce warned the former assassin as he caught the the skinny little fuck eyeing up the pair of omegas that’d been driving most of the men mad for the last fortnight at supper.

It was down to the last night now and more than one man of the Watch was thinking thoughts better left alone.

“Those two are killers, lad, you ought to recognize your own kind.”  Royce continued when the beta shot the alpha knight a scathing glance.  “They might be prettier than half the southron ladies in King’s Landing or the whores of the Street of Silk but tryin’ it on with them will get you gelded at best and dead at worst.”

“I can handle myself.”  Tanner snarled, eyes flashing murderously, only to shut up right-quick as a heavy fist belonging to the First Ranger slammed down beside his plate.

He’d been so damn busy eyeing up the omegas that he’d failed to note the _point_ of Royce’s warning beside the obvious.

“Maybe so.”  Benjen threatened idly, already exasperated at what he foresaw going to be an ongoing problem until he could hand off the duty to his elder brothers.  “But if you like your head on your neck you’ll turn your eyes away from what a bunch of black brothers will never be able to touch even if your vows _didn’t_ keep you from such things.  ‘m I clear?”

“Aye, First Ranger.”  The whole lot of scum arrayed around the table – mostly the dregs from the capital’s Black Cells like Tanner, like finding like – including Tanner and Rast, the rapist, acknowledged the order that shouldn’t have _had_ to be given, especially this late into the omegas’ stay at the Wall.

“Good lads.”  Benjen clapped Tanner so hard on the back it was certain to bruise – which was rather the point.  “I would _hate_ to lose such honorable brothers of the Watch to my nephew’s wolf – if Jon didn’t get to you first, whichever an idiot might have thought to go after despite their vows.”

…

Benjen had thought his nephew and his redheaded companion were quite at ease during their stay at Castle Black.

Jon had certainly never stinted from helping the lads with their arms training or failed to take Maester Aemon up on an invitation to speak with him in the Maester’s tower.

The redhead, Bael, had been more reserved but given Benjen’s suspicions about the lad’s exact origins that wasn’t surprising by any measure.

It wasn’t until they were on the Wall Road that led along the south face of the Wall and ground level from the Shadow Tower in the West all the way to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea on the Bay of Seals in the East, with just enough clearance between Wall on the (given the direction of their travel) left and the massive dark forestlands of the Gift a hundred paces to the right and well out of sight of any scouts of the Watch that might’ve been stationed along the wall that Benjen realized just how wrong he’d been about the pair’s ease at Castle Black.

Almost in unison, just a few ticks apart, their seats on the garrons loaned by the Lord Commander to take them to Eastwatch loosened, their shoulders relaxed, and their gazes stopped darting about.

They actually, _finally_ , relaxed for perhaps the first time since Benjen had met them.

Jon’s direwolf – and it _was_ very much Jon’s companion as had been made evident before they even hit the Wall – had loped off into the forest perhaps a mile previous to the pair’s relaxing of their guard, Jon having sold most of his remaining hides to the Watch and having the rest bundled behind his saddle, freeing up his friend to roam as he would.

Benjen couldn’t deny that he was jealous of a few of those hides.

Shadowcat and snow bear weren’t easy to take down or even track, but he supposed with a fully grown and trained direwolf on his nephew’s side like Ghost that it was likely easier for him to manage than it would be for most.

Still, he knew several of the rangers who would be glad of Jon’s collection of reindeer hides as the temperatures continued to drop leading into winter, including himself.

Laughter rang out from the pair as they rode ahead of Benjen, jokes and teasing passing between them at a fast clip and in a mixture of Common Tongue and High Valyrian that at times had Benjen chuckling to himself at the adherence to the story they’d told regarding the redhead’s origins even when they were far enough ahead of him that their words were little more than a babble of sound carrying back to his ears.

He thought he saw something _else_ during the ride from Castle Black to Eastwatch, something between them that was sure to spell trouble ahead with his family if he was right about it, let alone the southerners and their _ideas_ regarding omegas and appropriate matches.

But if it was there between them – the pull of mates – or if it was just starting to form, either way Benjen had to admit that either the lads weren’t aware of it themselves or were being extremely circumspect.

He didn’t dwell on it too long, however.

Whatever was there or wasn’t, Jon was a man grown and fierce with it.

If there was _one_ thing he didn’t have to worry about plaguing his half-Valyrian and half-wolfblooded nephew, it was being forced into a marriage or mateship he didn’t want.

…

Jon saw Eastwatch for the first time in his new life from the air.

Saerax, despite all of Jon’s wishes otherwise, had stayed close to him.  Flying high in the sky overhead, so small in the blue expanse that the indigo dragon with a speckling of silver scales looked no more sizable than a raven or a hawk.  Stubborn.  Saerax was _so fucking stubborn_ , but Jon didn’t know if that was his influence on the dragon – he wasn’t exactly known for his own yielding nature – or simply the nature of a creature so large and fierce it had no natural predators.

The dragon did a single loop high above the edge of the Bay of Seals, giving Jon a decent estimate that Eastwatch was much the same as he remembered before Saerax headed farther East, finding and settling in to rest on one of the abandoned islands off Skagos with a native herd of goats to feed their belly while Jon saw to his business at the only port of the Night’s Watch.

Which was really all Eastwatch was: a port and a garrison at the castle and that was it.

There was a bit of a town that’d sprung up with a tavern, inn, brothel, but so small and limited was the trade the Watch managed with the outlying world that there wasn’t even an office of the Iron Bank to conduct business from, Jon instead being directed by one of the black brothers at the garrison – where Benjen was staying while Jon, Bael, and Ghost made themselves as comfortable as possible at the inn – to meet the Bank’s representative at that same inn a handful of days after they arrived from Castle Black.

He was mildly entertained by the joint disgruntlement of Bael and Ghost at being back out of the wilds, even in so small a settlement as Eastwatch.

Jon knew they’d adjust, eventually, but all of Bael’s life and much of Ghost’s own had been spent running wild in the North.

Civilization took getting used to after clean cold air and wide expanses to roam.

While they waited on the Iron Bank, Jon received a raven forwarded by Maester Aemon to the maester of Eastwatch from Ironwrath confirming that Jon’s order of ironwood arrow shafts would be delivered to Winterfell and payment – as Jon had the Stark name to call upon even if he didn’t bear it himself – accepted on said delivery.

Benjen arranged their passage for the day after Jon was to meet with the Bank representative to White Harbor on one of the supply ships for the Watch that ran the distance between the two ports every fortnight, Bael complained, and they waited.

The ship from Braavos arrived _precisely_ on time.

Though who it carried – as well as what they wanted – was distinctly unexpected even in Jon’s wildest estimations of how much this world had deviated from his old.

…

Bael grumbled a bit and carried on for show when Jon insisted he stay behind with Ghost in their room while he went to meet with the representative from the Iron Bank and collect his effects, but then the redheaded man of the Free Folk hadn’t been in good humor for days since they arrived in Eastwatch.

Jon was rather certain it was being surrounded by _crows_ without having the freedom to slip away into the forest to hunt as he’d done at Castle Black as Bael had handled being there for longer and with a great deal less grousing.

Whatever was causing Bael’s poor mood however, he waved Jon off to the inn room a missive in High Valyrian delivered by one of the serving girls – who likely made a bit of extra coin off of sharing her favors with black brothers and travelers alike if he knew anything about the type – not long before.

Only when the door opened and revealed who’d taken up the charge of delivering Jon’s chest from Braavos, he nearly stumbled over his own feet in shock.

“Keyholder Nestoris.”  Jon blinked, shutting and barring the door behind him firmly as he kept his gaze firmly locked on the second person in the room, already reading the man he’d met before – if only briefly – as a sellsword and rogue as an alpha and not trusting him as far as he could throw him.

Bronn of the Blackwater had been many things from what Jon understood of Tyrion’s stories.

Trustworthy had never been one of them.

Though for the life of him he couldn’t figure out what the sellsword – he was assuming – was doing with Nestoris coming from Braavos instead of being in the Riverlands as he’d been when Tyrion had first met him.

Another change and one that was like to knock Jon right onto his ass and off kilter as soon as the fullness of it was explained by an all-too-calm and collected Nestoris.

“I wasn’t expecting you.”

“No,” Tycho Nestoris, one of the higher-tier keyholders of the Iron Bank – and one of their best agents – folded his arms placidly inside of his voluminous Braavosi-style sleeves.  “I imagine not.  But,” his smile was nothing less than enigmatic.  “We at the Iron Bank were not expecting to have further business with House Vaelarys with your interests and assets so firmly removed from Essos.”  Genuine humor lit his dark eyes if only for a split-second.  “You have won me quite a few purses, Lord Jaerion, by surviving your time in the wilds of Westeros’s far north.  More than one of the keyholders of our institution were rather certain you were chasing a death wish.”

“At one time that might’ve been true.”  Jon couldn’t deny that though he failed to drop his guard despite Nestoris almost seeming to be trying to put him at ease.  “But there is much I have to do that couldn’t be managed by another.”

“Yes, yes there is.”  Nestoris’s smile widened, then nodded to his companion who lifted the heavy ironwood chest with its inlay of the dragon ouroboros of House Vaelarys and set it before its owner, tossing the lid back revealing the contents for inspection.  “On which is a subject that requires our presence here and not that of a simple guard, I am afraid.”

Jon’s eyes widened at the sight inside of his chest.

Before leaving Braavos he’d contracted with the Iron Bank to commission as many three-and-four sided broadheads as his inheritance would purchase from the famed smiths of Qohor to be fashioned out of Valyrian steel.

Based on the little he knew of the expense of reforging the metal, he’d expected perhaps a hundred arrowheads.

It might not seem like much but against the Others and being reusable in a way the brittle dragonglass arrowheads were _not_ – and likewise able to be shaped into broadheads of more than two sides – but it was what Jon had thought an acceptable use of his inheritance, the sort of proper planning his mother might’ve approved of especially when paired with the shafts now on-order for Ironwrath.

That – a hundred or so arrowheads – _wasn’t_ what the chest contained.

Or at least, not alone.

Leaning back, he did a quick estimate of the chest’s dimensions in his head, the sort of mathematics he’d always been good at even as a boy when tallying long sheets and columns of sums had been difficult beyond reason for him to keep track of, and from there made another estimate.

“Either my inheritance was _severely_ underestimated by the Bank, Keyholder Nestoris.”  He noted mildly as Bronn snorted a laugh at the tone he used on the Braavosi.  “Or this chest contains much more than I ordered…including,” he did a quick count of the top layer of the chest, shifting the weaponry to see if there was more than the one of something he distinctly _did not_ pay for.  “A score of daggers.  Imagine my surprise.”  Valyrian eyes turned as cold as the lands he’d called home for four years and some moons as he locked his gaze on the keyholder not unlike Ghost picking out a weak deer from a herd.  “So, keyholder.  Would you _care_ to explain?”

“Due to your personal dealings with the Bank, an avenue was opened regarding _incentives_ that we otherwise would not have had.”  Nestoris said in the infuriatingly calm manner he wielded like a swordblade with devastating precision.  “All facts eventually reach the Iron Bank along with the flow of gold and silver.  Valyrians are a _particular_ breed, especially those who survived the Doom of their people.  At the Iron Bank, we watch them and their activities as closely as possible due to their _proclivities_ in the past.”

“Call a thief, a thief.”  Jon arched a knowing brow.  “They were slavers.”

“Some still are.”  Nestoris corrected.  “Though, interestingly enough, none of the remaining dragonlords few as you are, save _one_.”

“Ah,” Jon gave the keyholder a slow-blink.  “I think I am beginning to understand the incentive.”

“The value of Valyrians in the modern day is much like their value in the old days – minus a weapon or two from their arsenals.”  Nestoris continued on relentlessly.  “They can bring stability to a torn region – and prosperity with it – or rip peace to shreds with little more than a flick of quill on parchment.  The Fourteen were ruthlessly effective at such.  Ongoing peace in Westeros – tales from the far north aside – benefits all on _both_ sides of the Narrow Sea and with Rhaegar Targaryen ruling the Seven Kingdoms peace is what is had.  It is the wish of the Iron Bank that this peace is upheld.”

“I’ve no plans to try and oust the Targaryens, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Jon held his temper with care.  There was no way for Nestoris to know that that damned ugly throne had cost him – and those he’d loved – in his past.  No way to know that Jon’s interests ran more in line with keeping the Seven Kingdoms alive and thriving than trying to seed treason and unrest.

Though, as Nestoris chuckled wryly and spoke again, it seemed that Jon had gotten the wrong side of things in his own assumptions.

“No, of that the Iron Bank has no concern.  When a man with claim to most of the most fertile lands in Essos decides instead to take his leave of his homeland and sail to the frozen north of Westeros, when he keeps to his word and is faithful in his payments to the Bank, we have no fear of that same man turning around and turning revolutionary or rebel.  No.”  Nestoris corrected him.  “Our concern is regarding another Valyrian and as you are the highest ranking Valyrian left alive, it is to you we have turned to… _ameliorate_ a delicate situation before it can explode into a wildfire that will attempt to consume _two_ continents rather than the one that has seen the bulk of the fighting between Valyrian factions over the last century.  _This_ continent.”  With that, Nestoris arched a brow at Bronn, prompting the handsome – if honorless – man to tell his tale.

From the look of him, you’d have thought the keyholder was asking him to run himself through with his own sword.

But as the sellsword was the one who sought the help of the Bank in funding an assassin to prevent the conflagration Nestoris wished to avoid, it was at the discretion of the Bank what they did with the information he’d given them.

That Jaerion Vaelarys was their answer instead of the fee demanded by the House of Black and White chafed to say the least.

“It’s not a Targaryen or a Vaelarys or a Maegyr or whatever it is that you’re thinkin’ is the problem.”  Bronn told him gruffly.  “It’s a Blackfyre.”

“A Blackfyre?”  Jon’s brows shot up towards his hairline in surprise.  “I was under the impression they were extinct in the male line.”

“Not as extinct as anyone would rather.”  Bronn snorted.  “My cousin, Illyrio, his mum was Nerys Blackfyre, the sister of Maelys the Monstrous.  My dad, worthless lump that he was, was Maelys’s only son.”  He waved an idle hand as if he hadn’t just shattered a good part of Jon’s knowledge of the world.  “Not that it matters.  I was happy as a sellsword riding with the Golden Company, my lil’ brother with me where I could protect him.  But aunty Nerys,” he whistled shaking his head.  “So long as she was alive she was drippin’ poison into my cousin’s ear.  And he’s done the same with his own daughter.  For me, I’d have been just fine ignoring that another land ever _existed_ across the Narrow Sea, but Illyrio’s a sharp one for all that he’s a cheesemonger now and not the brave bravo he used to be.  They took something from me.”

Ah, Jon almost said aloud, seeing those dark eyes – nearly black so dark was the purple – flash.

There was the dragon’s blood coming out in Bronn.

Somehow while still shocked to his toes at this revelation of Bronn’s origins, he wasn’t _that_ surprised to find out he was one of the fiery and tempestuous Blackfyres.

“Something that matters more to me than my pride or an ugly chair I never wanted a claim to in the first place.”  He nearly growled.  “I’ll have it back, even if I have to slit both Illyrio and Daena’s throats myself, and _before_ they barter it off to a fucking horselord.”

“Why do I have a feeling that when you say _something_ you actually mean _someone_?”  Jon hazarded, eyes narrowed and locked on the banked-rage in Bronn’s normally unbothered-by-everything face.

“Because you’re not a ruddy fool.”  Bronn snorted.  “My little brother is every inch the Valyrian in looks that I’m not.  Silver hair and all.  My _cousin_ wants to use him to keep me under control and buy himself an army of Dothraki screamers in one swoop.  The seven _hells_ can crash down on my head before I’ll see the boy I’ve protected all my life given to one of those raping horsefuckers to be passed around between a horselord and his blood riders.”

In that case, Jon just had one question – and it was for Nestoris not Bronn as the sellsword had made his case quite clear.

“Why bring this to me?”  Jon asked, head cocked thoughtfully to one side as he studied the pair.  “The issues of House Blackfyre are the problems of House Targaryen, not House Vaelarys."

“Because,” Nestoris told him with that same placid smile that had never moved off of his face.  “Rhaegar Targaryen is the King of the Seven Kingdoms, not of Pentos or the Dothraki Sea.  Only _one_ Valyrian in the Known World has the bloodline and will to make a decision regarding his people outside of House Targaryen's purview.” And, some would argue, even issues within it for all that Jaerion Vaelarys has no wish to exert his rights or will on another. Quite the odd Valyrian, was this one.

“The Valyrians are _not_ my problem.”  Jon protested vehemently.  “There are thousands – tens of thousands likely – of people with Valyrian blood scattered throughout Westeros and Essos, maybe even in the Summer Islands and the lands beyond the Sunset Sea by now.  My ancestor’s brother thought to make himself Emperor over the ashes of the Freehold.”  He shook his head firmly, crossing his arms.  “It was sheer _folly_.  And never since has a Vaelarys sought to turn conqueror over what yet remains of our lost people.”

“All the more reason.”  Nestoris wouldn’t be swayed.  “The Iron Bank has no wish for you to take up the title of Emperor of Valyria, Lord Jaerion.  Rather the opposite.  Of the Old Blood that remains and isn’t squabbling for control of Volantis, there is only one who can sanction an action against one of your own.  Whether Targaryen or Blackfyre, they were once one of the two-score and House Vaelarys one of the Fourteen.  What evils are done by them can ultimately be laid at the foot of _your_ family for allowing them to run unchecked for four hundred and fourteen years since the Doom.”

“Great speech.”  Jon snorted, rolling his eyes.  “I say again: this Illyrio son of Nerys is _not_ my problem nor are his plots.”

“And when he brings war to Westeros and breaks the fragile peace you’re attempting to broker between the Free Folk and those of the south?”  Nestoris went for the kill.  “Will he be your problem then?”

Jon groaned, tilting his head back to stare up at the ceiling beams for long moments, then focused back on the anxious form of Bronn Blackfyre and unflappable Tycho Nestoris.

“The Blackfyres, only.”  Jon warned.  “After this, the Iron Bank will leave me be.  I’m not going to get involved in Volantene politics or whatever else hereafter.  This _one_ issue and then I’m done.”

“Excellent.”  Nestoris smiled.  “Then I shall leave you and Master Blackfyre to conspire, shall I?”

…

_Later that night:_

“What took so long?”  Bael asked as the door finally opened where the Winter Wolf had been long in discussion with…he blinked.

A handsome alpha apparently.

Bael didn’t want to think about why that bothered him, especially as while the alpha was patently attracted to Jon – and who wouldn’t be? – there was no scent of sex on the air.

“Bael.”  Jon sighed, not all that surprised to find his friend and – he looked up and over the other omega into the hall – Ghost with him as he _had_ been hours locked away with Bronn, who was much the same only perhaps for different reasons to the man Jon had only known briefly.  “This is Bronn.  He’s going back to Braavos with the representative of the Iron Bank to handle a problem there.”

His friend frowned deeply.

“What problem across the sea could matter to you more than the ones we already have?”

“It doesn’t matter _more_ ,” Jon corrected, ushering Bael down the hall as he juggled the large ironwood chest, Bronn going the opposite direction at a _look_ from Jon.

Bronn knew the plan, he simply had to carry it out with a bit of arranging on the part of the Iron Bank to get him into position.

Jon would do his part when the time came but Bael was right.

There was nothing more important to him at the moment than the threat of the Night King.

Even a power-hungry Blackfyre with eyes on the Iron Throne.

Rolling his eyes at Jon’s obstinacy in not asking for help with the chest, Bael reached out and snagged the end closest to him, the pair managing it much better than Jon had done alone for all that it wasn’t as heavy as it would’ve been if it were completely filled.

The Iron Bank hadn’t felt the need to bribe him _that_ handsomely to solve the problem of the Blackfyres no matter what they said about “incentives.”

But what they _had_ done in that regard would be a boon in the war to come, of that he was certain.

Especially as there were a few people he’d like to see kitted out with Valyrian steel daggers and arrows, even if the latter would have to wait until he arrived in Winterfell and took possession of the ordered shafts and got to fletching ends and binding the heads.

“But,” Jon continued once they were safely in their shared room and he’d thrown open the cache of Valyrian steel that Bael was rightfully goggling over.  “Since handling their problem has just helped us in a massive way with our _own_ problem, I think it was the right thing to do.” 

He smirked at the redhead’s shock and awe as Bael reached in and – ignoring the daggers as he already used one himself thanks to Jon – plucked up a vicious four-sided broadhead that gleamed with the ripples of dragonsteel in the candlelight.

“Wouldn’t you say?”

“I say,” Bael swallowed harshly, blinking back tears of sheer relief as he knew better than most what the cache of dragonsteel meant to his people.  “That you’re the best thing to ever happen to the Free Folk, Jon Winter-Wolf.  And I’m not shamed to admit it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I'm sure some of those who follow my Facebook can guess, this is the point where the one-shot Jon/Khal Drogo I have planned would depart from the main story. I'm going to continue writing this and you'll learn what Bronn does in Essos in later chapters but know that when the one-shot is posted this - particularly Bronn being in Westeros - is where the one-shot diverges from the main story.


	9. Chapter 9

**Winter’s Wolf**

**Chapter Eight: Winterfell**

_Kings Landing:_

Rhaegar Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of Westeros and Protector of the Realm, arched a silver-gold blond brow as he opened the missive handed over by his Grand Maester Gormon, a man of the Reach and formerly of House Tyrell, that the maester brought to him while he sat at his evening meal with his children and their uncle Oberyn.

Ever watchful was Oberyn Martell, particularly of Aegon though Rhaegar couldn’t fault him for being protective or suspicious of Rhaegar given that it was by Rhaegar’s doing – if not his hand – that had killed the Dornishman’s beloved sister.

Elia had been too weak for more children after Aegon, everyone knew it.

But it hadn’t mattered to either of them.

They were a prince and princess – king and queen by then.

They knew their duty to the Realm and as his own parent’s children had proven life could be uncertain even for those with the best maesters, healers, and alchemists in the world at hand.  Only three of the children of Rhaella and Aerys lived to adulthood out of ten pregnancies. Aerys wedding his eldest son and only heir – as both Viserys and Daenerys in time proved to be omegas and therefore ineligble by the pervading law of the majority of the Seven Kingdoms though both Aerys and Rhaella were long-dead by then – to an omega who while a politically sound match wasn’t of strong constitution to provide heirs hadn’t done the stability of the realm any favors.

No, Rhaegar didn’t blame Oberyn for his dislike of Rhaegar.

It did, however, get old to be so closely watched by someone other than the Kingsguard, making the times where Aegon as the Crown Prince went to dispatch his duties to his current seat of Dragonstone a much-needed respite for Rhaegar as both a King and a man.  What Oberyn would do if he discovered that rather than remaining chaste to Elia’s memory but rather was carrying on an affair with his fellow alpha male and closest friend Ser Arthur Dayne didn’t bear imagining. Somehow Rhaegar doubted even the most forgiving of his children in loving Visenya would pardon him if one of the Kingsguard or Rhaegar himself were forced to cut down their uncle lest he assassinate Rhaegar in a rage.

Though if he could anticipate the desires of his present children and siblings – as Viserys well-ensconced with his lovers and mates in their distant cousin Ser Renly Baratheon and the youngest Tyrell son Ser Loras at the rebuilt palace of Summerhall and his own eldest Rhaenys lived with her husband Ser Willas Tyrell and the future Lord of Highgarden at the aforementioned castle in the Reach – he would shortly be freed from the dark looks of his infernal good-brother.

“It seems we at last have an answer for those odd inquiries five or so years ago.”  Rhaegar announced, passing the message over to an eagerly-watching Aegon, his shadow in the form of Rhaegar’s youngest child and second of the twins whose carrying and labor cost Elia her life, Daeron, leaning over his shoulder to read it along with him.  

It was hardly the first time he’d seen such a thing and he knew the way a parent does that it wouldn’t be the last.  They were close, far closer than Daeron was even with his own twin in Visenya, Daeron as fierce as Visenya was sweet.  Close enough that many whispered that Aegon and Daeron may return to the close intermarriages that Targaryens were infamous for though he’d seen no evidence of such nor had any of the Kingsguard who since Daeron had blossomed as an omega at thirteen they’d been watchful of over the last four years.  

If they were meant to be mates, he would allow it, taking it as a sign that they would provide strong children as the Valyrians of old believed when a true mateship occurred between close relations.

Given that Aegon the Conqueror and his sisters had been born of such a union, it was a hard notion to shake off.

That the infamously unhappy marriage between Aegon and Visenya that birthed Maegor the Cruel was the sort of forced union as that his parents had suffered for many long years before both had died within a year of each other was merely more fire to that speculative flame.

Rhaegar’s marriage and mateship to Elia had been weak, built on politics and alliances for all that Elia and Oberyn alike espoused his late wife’s love of her husband.

If romantic love that led to happy marriages existed, he’d never found it except in songs.

Give him the iron-forged loyalty and lust of a strong partner he was drawn to any day like that he’d found with Arthur.  Between them they had little softness. That was best. Only his children and siblings had ever touched the heart of King Rhaegar Targaryen, allowing him to give the remainder to the welfare of his people above all but them.

That was how it should be, though if his children and siblings found love and perfect matches for themselves he would ever wish them well and give them his blessing.

A trait, rumor had it, that he shared with his Warden of the North though Rhaegar couldn’t remember ever meeting Brandon Stark to confirm it outside of the single audience where the new Warden had come to Kings Landing to bend the knee and be affirmed in his position as the Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North with his father’s death.

“So we do.”  Aegon lifted his brows as Daeron grinned, his happy scent perfuming the air and testing his resolve when it came to his younger brother.  The little minx. Daeron was set on Aegon being his alpha and wasn’t shy about using every last underhanded trick in the book – as well as a few new ones he was certain Dae had learned from their cousin Arianne or one of the Sand Snakes – to break his resolve on the matter.  That resolve being that they must wait. Until Aegon had met and failed to match with the most eligible children of at least the Great Houses dismissing them in preference for Dae would risk causing a slight the likes of which perhaps even their father wouldn’t be able to fix.  No, something told Aegon they needed to wait. He only wished for certain he knew what they were waiting for, to tell Dae the next time he got fed up with Aegon’s latest stalling measure. “Interesting. Didn’t they think for a time that the Lady Lyanna ran off with you, father?”

Oberyn hissed even as he read the message for himself – though it was an announcement in reality.

That aside, it told them and anyone with the sense to see it plenty for themselves:

**_Lord Brandon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North_ **

**_Hereby announces the first Tourney of Winterfell to commence on the last day of the second moon of the third century following Aegon’s Conquering_ **

**_Held in High Honor of the Coming of Age of his Nephew_ **

**_Lord Jaerion Vaelarys_ **

**_Son of the late Lady Lyanna Stark_ **

**_And her lawful husband and mate the late Lord Aurion Vaelarys, Heir of the Fourteen_ **

**_All Comers Welcomed…_ **

The announcement went on to give the specifics of the areas of competition – it was to be a full tourney complete with joust, sword, archery, as well as all the common tests of skill at arms save for the singular absence of a melee given that Rhaegar had outlawed the dangerous rout that ended most tourneys before his reign and cost more in dead fighters than anything outside of an active battlefield.

 “I knew he had a son,” Oberyn speculated.  “Though not with the infamously missing Lady Lyanna or any idea of the child’s age.”  He winced. “This Jaerion was young indeed when his father died, though when the Stark girl died is impossible to say.”

“Heir of the Fourteen,” Visenya frowned slightly, sharing a puzzled glance with Dany though Aegon at least seemed to have some idea of what it meant.  “I’ve never heard of that before.”

“You wouldn’t have.”  Rhaegar smiled at her indulgently.  “It’s an old title. As House Targaryen claims the Blood of Old Valyria and once were dragonlords, being one of the Fourteen was a title held by the most powerful and ancient of the ruling families of the Freehold.”

“House Vaelarys used to rule over the Golden Fields.”  Aegon added, having done his research after the questions came from Winterfell five years – give or take – before regarding House Vaelarys.  “It was one of the richest Houses of the Freehold and the only one of the greatest dragonlord families to survive the Doom – or so it seems if this Jaerion’s claim is legitmate.”

“Should be.”  Oberyn reminded his nephew – and his good-brother – mildly, taking a sip of his rich wine with an amused smirk on his face.  “Given that Aurion was the only man I’ve ever met to possess an entire armor set forged of Valyrian steel, plus a sword, a bow strung with the same and fashioned of dragonbone, and other riches thought lost with the Freehold.”

Aegon, Daeron, Visenya, and Dany all turned their heads to look at Rhaegar with big purple eyes, staring beseechingly which had Rhaegar and Oberyn sharing an amused – and exasperated – glance.

“I’ll send a raven to your betrothed.”  He told the girls, both of whom were betrothed to the sons of Jaime Lannister and Daena Whent – Dany to wed with the elder Tyson who would inherit Casterly Rock and Visenya to the younger Jamison who would gain Harrenhal.  They were fine knights with the golden hair the Lannisters were infamous for, pleased their grandfather with marrying royalty, and had their father’s genial nature. That both were as handsome as the combination of Lannister golden looks and the fine bones of the Whents could provide and pleased his girls helped with the decision when they were younger and Tywin broached the subject.  Both Dany and Visenya were drawn to their future mates and Tywin would have a pair of matches to sooth his ire over Aerys’s insulting dismissal of Cersei as a possible bride for Rhaegar. It was one of the few compromises as a King that Rhaegar and Tywin alike found themselves pleased with the results of. “Though I doubt Ser Jaime and his sons will be able to resist the draw of the first tourney held in Winterfell in living memory.”

Taking that as the implied permission that it was meant to be, the princes and princesses bent their heads together to make plans for both their journey and what amusements might be found at Winterfell as their elders – including the ever-watchful Kingsguard – observed their antics with amusement.

Within a few days the raven returned from Casterly Rock and Rhaegar found his assumption to be sound as both it and the whispers carried to his ears by Varys agreed: most of the noble families of the Seven Kingdoms were willing to stir from their castles and manses to attend such a rarity as a tourney in the North.

For his part, Rhaegar was more than willing to allow the royal family to be represented by his children and siblings – all but Rhaenys anyway, as the future Lady of Highgarden was fecund with her second child and wouldn’t be going anywhere but her birthing bed if the sharp tongued-and-eyed Lady Olenna Tyrell, her grandmother by marriage, had anything to say about it.

Given what Rhaegar knew about the Queen of Thorns both by reputation and his own dealings with the Tyrell matriarch, he’d wager she had a significant amount to say regarding the matter.

Still, he was looking forward to a quiet few moon turns as the others traveled to Winterfell and back.

Though if he had any idea of the chaos that was to follow, he would not have been nearly as complacent regarding the thought of how much trouble could they get into in a place like Winterfell?

…

_Winterfell_

It took the party of three men and a direwolf – with a dragon flying overhead though only Jon and Ghost knew of Saerax’s presence – two weeks on a ship and a week overland to reach Winterfell once they’d departed from Eastwatch-by-the-Sea.  With Jon’s business concluded, they set out the next day, leaving him with a mere two moons by the time he reached Winterfell before his eighteenth nameday in this world. Which given what Benjen kept making jabs about was certain to be a much-celebrated day that the planning of which was already in the works for if the First Ranger knew anything about his eldest brother.

Jon would find that while Benjen was much removed from the doings of Winterfell by his position and his distaste for his good-sister, he did indeed know of which he spoke when it came to Brandon.

At least one of them did.

All Jon knew of Brandon Stark was much like his scant knowledge of his own mother: of whispers and rumors and tales from a world as different and yet the same from this as he was both different and the same, and then the bits and pieces he’d picked up since making a deal with the gods to save this world from a gruesome fate if he could manage it.

By the time the towers of Winterfell were in sight, he estimated that Bronn had likely already reached Pentos being able to travel much quicker alone than three men and a direwolf with baggage.  Even if said baggage was pulled by the horse Uncle Benjen had rented from the stablemaster in White Harbor while Jon rode Ghost. The direwolf had taken one look at the horse and snorted in derision at the strong but ugly nag before butting into Jon with his massive head.  That the horses hadn’t spooked at the sight of the direwolf was down to stout Northern breeding of that both he and Bael were agreed.

Whether Bronn had already done the deeds Jon had set him in return for his support remained to be seen.

Like with Brandon and many others now that Jon had rejoined the world, he was running off of a lot of suppositions and guesses based on old knowledge and initial impressions.

But, if he had to bet gold or his life on it, he’d wager that rather than trusting the issue to a raven Jon would discover what came of Bronn’s mission when the sellsword popped back up again and not a moment sooner.

As they crested the last hill before Wintertown and Winterfell, Jon felt his breath catch in his throat.

And there it was: safety.  Home. Life. Winterfell. The fortress that had sheltered and protected and succored House Stark for eight thousand years.

Built over a series of hot springs, complete with the steaming water piped in throughout the walls and used to heat everything from the castle to the bathes to the laundry, it was the last hold and best refuge against the worst of winters.

Holding strong against all enemies save for that of traitors and dragons, it was a blessing to his sight and the most bittersweet vision of his new life all at the same time.

Not unlike seeing his own new face, looking down and over the strong towers that had never known the torches of the Ironborn, glasshouses still pristine, and no stench of Ramsay Bolton filled him with a mixture of joy and regret.

He’d failed her once: Winterfell and all her people.

Lost her to the Night King and his army of the dead.

Never again.

Even if he had to put a sword through the Night King’s head or an arrow through his frozen heart: there and then as he paused on the back of Ghost at the rise of the hill he swore to all the gods: old, new, and foreign that Winterfell would never fall so long as he drew breath.

“Beautiful in its way, isn’t it?”  Benjen smiled as his nephew paused and drank in the sight of his home with a strange half-mourning expression while his friend Bael cocked his head and blinked at the sheer size of the castle and the town just outside its walls.  “Welcome, nephew of mine, to Winterfell.”

“Fuck Jon,” Bael breathed, sucking in a shocked breath even as the trio moved forward.  As they’d done since departing from White Harbor he fell in on Jon’s left as his uncle took position on his left.  With as ruddy huge as Ghost was it was the only arrangement that made sense – especially with the pack horse in particular not wanting to be too close to Ghost for all that the horses restrained themselves to eyeing the direwolf nervously.  “I know you said it was big but…”

“Hard to imagine, aye?”  Jon shook himself out of his reverie and turned a smirk on his wildling friend.

“Aye.”  Bael shook his head ruefully.  “And it’s not the largest in Westeros?”

“Not by half.”  Jon told him honestly.  “Harrenhal holds that distinction.  Highgarden and Casterly Rock I think are the next largest, then Winterfell and Sunspear, with Storm’s End and the Eyrie being the smallest of the castles of the Great Houses if my education isn’t failing me.”

“It isn’t.”  Benjen agreed, nodding.  “Though it’s easier for the Tyrells to enlarge their holdings than it is for the Lannisters given that the Rock is built on the sea with sheer cliffs making up three sides of it.  What they have is what they have, like the Eyrie, while the rest of the castles can be easily expanded. The same with the Red Keep which is similar in size, from what I’ve been told by Ned, to Sunspear.”

“Looks busier than I was expecting.”  Jon held in a sigh. “Good thing I didn’t take you up on that bet, Uncle Benjen, or I’d owe you good gold about now.”

Benjen just humored him with one of his half-smiles that tended to turn his stern features into a rough handsomeness and set heels to his mount’s sides as shouts came up from the watch tower – and he could just imagine the sort of sight they made.

…

“Lord Stark, Lord Stark!”  A runner from the wall guard ran into Brandon’s study.  “They’re approaching Wintertown!”

Tracking the group of his brother, long-lost nephew, and their companion hadn’t been hard for the northern scouts to say the least, what with the massive direwolf and all, and they’d been expecting their arrival either that day or the next based on the reports.

As a result, it was only the work of a few moments to have Brandon, Ned, and all their family arranged in the great entrance yard of Winterfell to greet wolves returning to the pack – including, much to Catelyn’s dismay and Ashara’s amusement, the children’s direwolves.

Though some of them weren’t much in the way of children anymore.  The Tully woman’s pestering over matches for their children, even Bennon who was only fourteen, was sure to send him running spare or have him give in to his longtime desire to send her packing back to her father’s house that he might finally have some peace in his own halls.  In the case of Thorin her grousing and grumping had a bit of merit given that their eldest and heir was nineteen namedays old, however with the circumstances of his own marriage being such a sore point to Brandon he wasn’t about to force him into a match where there wasn’t at least some compatibility and as yet he hadn’t taken to any of the many possible matches that’d been presented to him.

If Catelyn was using Benjen at last locating their lost nephew to throw a feast and have their son meet and mingle with even more possible matches that was her own affair and one that – for once – he wasn’t inclined to stifle given that she didn’t try and force any of her own ideas regarding the future Lady of Winterfell on Thorin.

Especially since he was doing the exact same thing by hosting a tourney at his good-sister Ashara’s suggestion.  Sansa in particular he thought would be happiest in the south with a genteel southron husband for all that he’d prefer she take a northern mate.  Even after he’d set a watcher on Catelyn’s time with their children and ensured that her more malicious or damaging – in his opinion – ideas didn’t take root, that didn’t stop Sansa from being far more ladylike than was usually found north of the Neck.  No, for her a gentle knight with a keep and home for her to run and who would be properly terrified of Sansa’s northern alpha kin to keep him in line would be perfect.

So, being the soft soul that he was for his children, Brandon agreed with Ashara since while his ideals wouldn’t allow his omegan children to leave his hearth without the protection of himself or one of his brothers, there was nothing preventing him from hosting the possible matches for his Fire Rose in Winterfell.

With the brisk trade in timber he’d begun at the urging of Ned and Ashara thanks to their knowledge of the wider world and in particular how desperate Braavos was for timber that’d come about by searching for Jaerion, Winterfell’s coffers were near to overflowing.  Even investments into repairs on his vassals’ lands or that of Moat Cailin hadn’t been too hard of a hit. For the first time he could remember the Starks had the financial power to rival at least the Tullys and Arryns if not the Lannisters or Tyrells.

Showing a bit of that wealth off to gain the attention of the best possible matches for his children he thought was the sort of extravagance Lyanna would have approved of.

That it might – possibly – also entice Jaerion into making his home in Winterfell or a nearby keep was another motivation behind the rare instance of departure from staunch northern frugality.

Anything would be better than going another five years – let alone the eighteen that it’d been since the boy’s birth – without word of his only sister’s only child.

Brandon would do almost anything to keep such a thing from happening.

Even if it meant welcoming a plague of southerners to descend onto the North.

As the gates opened and he watched the lithe form of his nephew – complete with silver-white hair that matched the giant fucking direwolf he was seated upon and Lyanna’s curve to his lips – he firmed his resolve as he drank in the sight of his long-missing kin.

Jaerion Vaelarys – Valyrian looks for the most part or not – was the blood of his blood.

Blood of the North, of the First Men, of the Wolfsblood.

He would protect him with every last iota of power he could bring to bear.

A resolution that merely strengthened as the trio paused a few strides from the array of Starks before dismounting, the great albino direwolf already taking a great sniff and watching the smaller – and younger – forms of his kin in amusement, a motion that served almost as a cue for the alphas and omegas present and Brandon’s grey eyes shot wide.

_Omega._

Both his sister’s boy and his friend were omega.

Oh, no.

Over his dead fucking body was anyone – northerner, southerner, or the fucking widowed King – going to take advantage of Jaerion Vaelarys so long as Brandon Stark drew breath.

That he vowed before the gods old and new.

…

“By the gods Benjen,” Brandon strode forward, breaking the line to Jon’s amusement, at last seeing why in another life Ned had always muttered regarding Arya’s resemblance to Brandon and Lyanna – in her behavior at least.  “You could have warned me that our nephew was an eligible and beautiful omega to shame the Princesses.” He turned and joked towards his brother as he clasped arms with the Ranger, eyes ever feasting on the sight of their once-lost kin.

With exquisitely gentle hands that were as large and broad as the Hound’s from Jon’s memories, Brandon rested one hand on Jon’s shoulder as the other held his chin, inspecting his features and likely searching out evidence of his sister’s touch to his features.

Not that there was much to find.

The gods had been thorough.  He looked as much a Valyrian in this life as he had a Stark of the North in his last.  His mouth had the same shape he’d come to find, that of his mother, where as Jon Snow it had been his dark purple eyes that passed as black as long as he could remember that gave evidence to Ned’s lie if any had thought to look.  Still, if one knew to look as before it was there in his smile mostly.

Well, that and the direwolf companion though that was Ghost’s doing more than any gods’.

“I’m your Uncle Brandon.”  His voice was gentle but gruff, reminding him much of Ned’s as he lowered the hold on Jon’s face and rested that hand on his free shoulder, giving a gentle but heartfelt squeeze in welcome.  “Lord of Winterfell and head of House Stark. Ever will you be welcome within our halls so long as I draw breath, blood of my blood, this I promise to you.”

“And I.”  And oh, that nearly broke Jon down.  Watching as a man that he’d once called Father step forward shoulder-to-shoulder with Brandon and Benjen as the three of them promised him safety, home, and hearth as their sister’s son.  It was everything he’d ever wanted but hadn’t known was his anyway. “The halls of Moat Cailin will ever welcome you Jaerion Vaelarys, son of our sister Lyanna. I’m Eddard Stark, Lord of Moat Cailin, your mother’s second brother but you can call me Uncle Ned.”

“It’s,” Jon cleared his throat blinking rapidly as the other men blocked his view – and discomposure – from the others who were watching with varying degrees of anxious eagerness.  “It’s Jon to my friends. You can call me Jon.”

“Jon it is.”  Brandon squeezed once more then passed him over to Ned for a full-on hug, Ned the freer with his affection since Brandon had been saddled with the Tully fish and grown cold to all but his children and brother’s – now sister’s as well – children.  “Welcome home, Jon. We’ve been waiting to meet you and your friend.”

“Bael.”  The redhead nodded and clasped arms with the Lord of Winterfell though he found his eyes drawn to a form behind the massive Lord – though he wasn’t as large as his own father, Brandon Stark wasn’t a small man by any means.  “I followed Jon from Braavos.”

“Brave of you,” Brandon nodded in approval even as the three Stark men steered the newcomers over to the waiting receiving line for a round of introductions.  “Two omegas roaming the world alone. I’d imagine you both know how to use those weapons I see on your persons and in your packs as a result.”

“Jon’s one of the best with a sword I’ve ever seen.”  Benjen commented with no-little amusement, knowing how Ned prided himself on his sword skills, being one of the few men in Westeros who’d managed to fight both the Sword of Morning and the Golden Lion of Lannister to draws.  “Might even be better than you, Ned.”

“Well, we’ll have time to find out before the tourney.”  Ned allowed, stepping to the side as Brandon introduced the young pair to his wife and children until it was his turn with his Ashara and their brood – all save Rickon who was fostering with Ashara’s brother in Starfall and would come with the Daynes for the events in several weeks.  “Give them both time to practice before they decide to enter.”

Though Jon was busy blinking over a man who looked like Robb but was almost nothing like Robb, Sansa who wasn’t as prissy but still otherwise the same from what he could tell, Minisa who was new, and a Catelyn who was if possible even more bitter than he remembered, he still caught that mention of a tourney…and the star-struck gazes “Thorin” who wasn’t Robb and Bael were trading.

That…might be a problem depending on this Thorin’s character as well as Brandon’s regarding matches for his children.  Lady Catelyn wasn’t in favor of the instant connection the two seemed to share if the pursed-lips expression was any sign which depending on her relationship with both Thorin and Brandon could work in Bael’s favor if he was truly interested or vastly against him depending.  Jon certainly wasn’t going to get involved either way. If Bael was old enough to fight off every Free Folk who’d even thought about stealing him, he was more than old and capable enough to deal with Catelyn Tully and an infatuated Thorin Stark, at least in theory. He wouldn’t allow Tormund’s son to be used and abused under any circumstances but it wasn’t for Jon to guard Bael’s heart for him.

“Tourney?”  He asked even as he bowed over the hand of a gloriously beautiful woman who was married – and mated given the scar on her neck – to his Uncle Ned in this life who was introduced as Ashara Dayne.  Well that answered that question for good and all. He completely understood why so many had thought that Lady Ashara had birthed him as she was beautiful enough to tempt a septon to sin let alone a healthy virile man like Eddard Stark.  And his cousins from Ned’s marriage had only benefitted from Ashara’s great beauty.

There was Robb who was named Robb and seemed a bit less arrogant than his Robb – and spookily could’ve passed as Jon’s twin in his first life down to the dark purple eyes, the gods really were fuckers sometimes – and Arya who had likely never in her life been called horseface with how much she looked like her mother.

Rickon was mentioned but missing as fostering with the Daynes and born to Ned while “Bennon” was fostering with the Mormonts and the product of Brandon and Catelyn.

He wondered if little Lyanna was still named for his mother in this world – and if so what his cousin thought of her.

Seven Stark children, eight counting himself, in this world rather than the six they’d been before complete with the direwolves to go with them exactly as his uncle Benjen had said.  Not that he’d really thought that Benjen was lying. But still. It was nice to have confirmation.

Not one of them were married or mated that he noticed or was told which he found interesting and was probably driving Catelyn spare.

Ashara seemed to have a great sense of humor if the curve of her smiles and the light look in her eyes was any sign.

Good.

Ned deserved to be happy after the shit life he’d been handed in Jon’s original world.

“To celebrate your nameday and coming of age.”  Ashara supplied, all-but-dancing forward and tucking her arm through her new good-nephew’s arm, eager to get to know the young wolf who’d been missing so long – and to pry every secret she could out of him.  Her beloved quiet wolf wasn’t one for the verbal dances or games of court. Canny enough to realize that a half-Valyrian Stark had the potential to become a major player, honorable enough not to want Jaerion anywhere near them.  She would press and maneuver and manipulate where Ned was too honest, Brandon too rash, Catelyn too…Catelyn, and Benjen too removed to manage the situation. By the time they’d finished with the ritual of bread and salt and enjoyed their evening repast she would know everything she needed about her new nephew and his friend to let her know if they were going to have to be actively managed or merely given a bit of gentle direction.  When it came to her family, Ashara Dayne was as fierce as any she-wolf. Like a proper Dornishwoman should be: as fierce and unrelenting as the summer sun. “All the Seven Kingdoms have been invited. Though,” her smile turned wicked and knowing as she shot the half-Valyrian a sideways glance. “Now that we know your dynamic I imagine it will turn into quite the fight between swains for yourself as it’s anticipated for your cousins and the other young flowers of the Kingdoms.”  Her laugh danced out merrily. “Such things often turn into little more than marriage and mating markets. It’s how I met and caught your uncle after all…”

To his credit, she noted that Jaerion didn’t stumble or gasp or give any sign of his surprise outside of a slight widening of his eyes – which she’d been watching for.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Winter’s Wolf**

**Chapter Nine: The North Remembers**

_Casterly Rock:_

“I don’t like it.”  Tywin reiterated to his sons and grandsons who were all in conference with him in the seat of House Lannister.

Even Eddard was present, Cersei managing to do exactly _nothing_ regarding her son’s insistence that at nineteen namedays old and a man grown and knighted he didn’t need his mother escorting him on his travels.  Not that Cersei had ever gotten much of her way with either her son or her husband much to his amusement. Robert Baratheon was as good a match as any noble omega or beta female could hope to make - unless that noble was Lyanna Stark though rumor had it _that_ noble was in fact an alpha which both her father and Robert had ignored to their own foolish ends.  But _tractable_ had never been one of Robert’s defining traits.

That they’d mated - at a guess - was likely the only thing keeping both of them faithful to their wedding vows and from embarrassing themselves in front of all of Westeros.

Small mercies.

Still, while his daughter had disappointed him in her inability to manage her household, her son was a capable warrior with none of his father’s infamously enormous appetites for bloodshed, women, or drink which was a blessing, and a full complement of Lannister intelligence and cunning.

He half-wished his son had gotten even half the wits of his grandsons to pass onto his only granddaughter who was a pretty little thing without a single original or intelligent thought rattling between her ears.

Three out of four however wasn’t bad odds considering the lacks of their parents and it was only by Tywin’s interference that Tyrion hadn’t managed to reproduce and throw his twisted blood back into the Lannister family tree.  If he’d had to choose, Tywin would have chosen smart and ruthless grandsons over a cunning minx like his daughter any day. So perhaps it was all to the best. Jaime and Daena - or more likely Tywin and her Whent grandparents - would find Shaena an appropriate match with a respectable fortune and that would see her well-settled and happy.

The boys on the other hand were a whole different problem for all that Tyson and Jamison had managed to woo and win the hands of two of the current crop of Targaryen Princesses as Eddard, like the Stark Heir was rumored to be, had thus far proved impossible to please when it came to making a match.

His second-eldest grandson respected him, it was true, but there was no fear there that might entice the stubborn lad into choosing a bride to one day become the Lady of Storm’s End.

And with the Northern Tourney coming up, many of the most eligible choices were likely to be snapped up by the Stark boys who were rumored to be as handsome in that dark northern fashion as Brandon and Eddard Stark had proven seductive enough to win a prize as sought after as Ashara Dayne.

No, Eddard Baratheon _needed_ a bride.

It was this nonsense of traveling to Winterfell for the Tourney and meeting the northern roses with the implied offer that came with such gatherings that had Tywin’s hackles raised.

From Tywin’s reckoning there would be a handful of Stark omegas to be had: three from Brandon, a fourth from Ned, and perhaps the fifth being Lyanna’s get if the rumors flying from the north were to be believed regarding this _Lord Jaerion Vaelarys_ ’s dynamic.

Lord of what, Tywin would like to ask?

He found it hard to swallow that a man would style himself thusly without landholdings or vassals, property or an army to his name.

A heritage and a House does not a Lord make in Tywin’s opinion.

Though if what his Maester had to say regarding the whispers coming from the Citadel were any sign, this Vaelarys boy may very well carry more blood of Old Valyria than anyone else alive in Westeros - and that was nothing to discount.

A Valyrian omega, said to be beautiful, and just coming of age.

Oh yes, that was a prize indeed, one fit for a King...or a Lord of Storm’s End as his other grandsons were already settled with princesses.

“You don’t like anything, Father.”  Tyrion quipped, waving an idle hand.  “Let Jaime and the boys go. It’ll do them some good to see what the wilds of the north are like.  Perhaps it will instill a bit of thankfulness for the luxurious lives they live as knights of the south.”

“I have to go.”  Eddard remained his grandfather with a lift of his dark brows.  “My father expects it and has already written of having sent off word of my attendance.  If he didn’t loathe traveling so much he’d go himself to see my namesake and his family.”

“Your _father_ ,” Tywin rolled his eyes.  “Wants you to marry a Stark and make the union his boorishness and intemperance cost the Stormlands when Lyanna Stark feld rather than wed him.  A notion,” he conceded though it tasted bitter. “That is not without its merits. You are to make _no_ offer for one of the eligible Starks, let alone mate one, without the approval of your uncles if not word from myself, am I clear?”

“As always, grandfather.”

“As crystal, father.”

“Good.”  Tywin scowled down at the Tourney announcement.

“Do you have a preference in mind?”  Tyrion asked idly though he already knew what his father was going to say.

And he was right.

“If this Jaerion Vaelarys _is_ an omega as the rumors say, _and_ the trueborn son of Lyanna Stark and a Valyrian dragonlord, then he would be best.”  Then Tywin smirked at the thought of House Lannister stealing such a prize out from under the noses of the Targaryens.  “Better still if one of the princes shows an interest. Perhaps the boy will prefer brunets to blonds, taking after his sire rather than his dam.”

…

_Winterfell:_

After the shared family meal, Ashara led Jon and Bael towards what in his old life were the ladies’ baths while Thorin, Robb, and the rest of the alphas led Benjen off towards the men’s.  He assumed that with the changes dynamics wrought that dynamics were more important than gender. At least in some cases as a single scolding look from Lady Catelyn made it _more_ than clear that the rest of the Stark omegas were _not_ to join Ashara in showing the two males to the baths.

Not that Jon could blame her what with both of them being strangers and Bael not related in the slightest way to the Starks.

Male omegas might be _omegas_ but they were also males, much like female alphas were alphas but also female.  Both of those sets of dynamic and gender combinations could both sire and carry children.  For a southron lady concerned with appearances it wouldn’t do to have the reputations sullied even in the _slightest_ when it came to her daughters.

Jon was right as it turned out, Ashara ushering him into baths he’d never entered in his life.  They were steaming with tubs fashioned of the finest smooth castle-steel, linen lining the metal and keeping the skin of any occupant from scratching on the metal unlike the rough stone of the men’s baths that were part of the actual hot springs heating the castle.  Clothing racks made of cedar lined one wall, another chest was opened to reveal an assortment of fine-milled castle soaps, hair oils, and other grooming essentials for the highborn. Toweling cloths were stacked on shelving both large sheets for the body and the finest cotton for a lady’s crowning glory of their hair.

He was surprised to see two sets of clean clothes already resting on the racks: one a set of what he thought was likely Thorin or Robb’s clothes from when they were younger in fine grey wool that given the make, colors, and sigil on the other set were meant for Bael.

It was a sign of hospitality he hadn’t expected but appreciated nonetheless as everything they carried could use a thorough cleaning.

But the clothes that were meant for him...those showed a care and hand that he suspected was the work of Ashara perhaps with help from her nieces.

He knew enough of Catelyn’s jealous nature than to assume that she had helped with the project.

It was a tunic, leather trousers, boots, cloak, even small clothes and socks.  On every piece in fine stitches he recognized from Sansa’s skill with a needle was the Vaelarys dragon ouroboros facing the Stark direwolf.  Silver cloth and silver-grey leather, the direwolf in white stitching and the dragon in the indigo of house Vaelarys, it was a set of clothes _designed_ for him, one of the finest he’d ever seen even finer than the leather and armor he wore as the King in the North.  As fine as the cloak Sansa made for him fashioned after Ned’s own.

Purple dye was expensive, as was pre-dyed cloth in the rich color, and as a result only the cloak was made of it with a large dragon ouroboros in silver making up the center of the cloak and the edging done in a chain of silver direwolves.

There was no clearer way Jon knew for a family to show their welcome to him, especially a noble family, nor to claim him as their own.

The Tourney and feast were for others.

The clothes from the Stark ladies were for _him_ alone for all that they’d make one hells of a political statement.

“Aunt Ashara…”  He started to speak even as he was uncertain _what_ exactly he was going to say only to be cut off from the Lady of Moat Cailin who lifted an imperious hand.

“Your uncles and I started collecting purples, silvers, and whites to make your gifts as soon as you were found.”  A smile twitched at the corner of her shapely mouth. “We started on the clothes as soon as Benjen sent word of you and your approximate sizing.  If I had to guess I would say that my good-brother likely has a northern warhorse awaiting you along with tack in the stables and my Ned is sure to have something else planned with Benjen if I know them at all.”  She reached out and took his hands in her own, purple eyes meeting purple eyes as she stared at him, Bael ignoring the scene between relations as he rolled his eyes behind Jon’s back and started stripping as he eyed the steaming water of one of the tubs like Ghost eyeing the last bit of dried meat from their packs.  “This is your _due_ as our nephew, Jon.  That your uncles haven’t been able to guide, shelter, and protect you - especially now that they know you’re an omega - is a wound that has never healed from the moment it ripped into them as they learned of you.  Let them, let _us_ do this for you now.  For them, if not for you.”

Jon swallowed harshly lifting his gaze and staring over at the clothing, then nodded.

Ashara smiled, delighted, and gave his hands another squeeze before turning and leaving them to their ablutions.

And, naturally, to share her thoughts and observations with Brandon and her husband where the pair - plus their heirs if she knew them at all - were likely already waiting to speak with Ashara and then Benjen once he bathed before speaking in conference with the young omegas.

…

“Well?”  Brandon asked his good-sister as she joined him and his brothers - Benjen having taken the quickest bath in the history of Winterfell - as well as young Thorin and Robb.  They weren’t boys anymore as damned _young_ as they seemed at times.  Both nineteen namedays apiece, they were born at Winterfell within a moon-turn of each other.  It was time - both he and Ned agreed - for them to truly start taking part in the duties and trials of lordship.

Including, unfortunately, having to air suspicions regarding one of their own or testing that Jon was who he claimed to be or where he’s _been_ all his life.

Ashara, canny thing that she was, managed the dance of the nobility better than either Brandon or Ned ever could, understood the ways of the south as they never _would_.  There was no better teacher for his son and heir or for Ned’s than the former Lady of Starfall.  Of all Westeros, House Dayne was one of the few remaining who had a name and heritage to equal or rival that of House Stark.

“He was unsurprised by Catelyn, yet was brought speechless by a simple gift of personal clothing.”  Ashara reported as she took the chair her Ned rose and held out for her at his side in Brandon’s solar.  “And if his friend is a Braavosi, I’m a wildling.”

Benjen chuckled, nodding.  “It’s a clever fiction, I’ll grant him.”  The First Ranger allowed. “But that boy’s a wildling if ever there was one.  Jon spent years beyond the Wall - that much I believe. He had a proposal to work with Mance ready and more knowledge thanks to his travels about the White Walkers and their wights than anyone in the Watch, including Maester Aemon.  If I had to lay a wager, I’d say young Bael is the first step towards sealing an alliance between the wildlings and those of the Wall and further south.”

“White Walkers and wights.”  Ned muttered, scowling deeply.  “Were it a tale from any other man I’d say he was mad.”

“And yet…”  Benjen cocked a brow, nodding in acknowledgment of the outlandish tale.

“And yet.”  Ned nodded. “What of the dragon dream, is that truth or another fiction do you think?”

“I think either way,” Benjen said after a moment’s thought.  “He’s our blood. Word came from the Wall while we were in Eastwatch.  The wildlings tell tales of their own. Of a warrior coming to them with the knowledge of how to defeat the dead and a full-grown direwolf.  Then there’s the death of Craster to consider and we all know what sort of cretin _he_ was.  Dream or no dream.  Jon’s our kin and he came to help us fight the Long Night.  I say we let him.”

“As do I,” Brandon sighed, rubbing one hand over his brow.  “And you, Thorin?” He turned towards his heir. “What are your thoughts?  Robb?”

“We welcome him, learn him, let him learn us.”  Robb spoke first after sharing a look with his cousin.  “Show him what it is to be a Stark and hope that his loyalty once gained is as fierce as his protection.”

“Aye,” Thorin nodded.

“And it has nothing at _all_ to do with that redhead you’ve been eyeing up, hmm nephew?”  Benjen teased the younger alpha.

“You know, if he _is_ a wildling.”  Brandon jumped on the chance to tease his heir.  “You’re going to have to take your chances with stealing him.  That’s their way.”

Thorin simply grinned.  “A strong beauty like that?  It’d be worth it to have children with the blood of the First Men running in their veins that strong and a passionate lover to hold at night.”

“Good luck with that.”  Ashara rolled her eyes at the expected cockiness from her nephew.  “If the muscles I saw when Bael started stripping down are any sign, you’ll have quite the fight on your hands.  And gods help you if Jaerion decides to intervene.”

“He won’t.”  Benjen was certain on that point.  “If Bael is a wildling then Jon will follow their ways: if Bael lets himself be stolen then he’s Thorin’s.  It’s whether he _wants_ to be stolen that’s the question.”

“Well,” Ned held in a grin to only a twitch of his lips.  “At least if Thorin mates young Bael none of the Northmen can take swipes at House Stark for diluting our blood with that of the south any longer.”

“Aunt Catelyn’s going to spit _nails_ .”  Robb’s tone was _far_ too pleased at the notion for his mother’s liking if the _look_ she shot him was any sign, but he wasn’t sorry.  She didn’t _belong_ in House Stark the way his mother did, had never made any attempt as long as Robb could remember - or the men told stories of - to acclimate and adapt to Northern culture rather than cling to her southron roots.

If Catelyn Tully was set to gain a wildling good-son, then it was merely the commuppance she was due for her unbending pride and southron airs as far as he was concerned.

Given that neither her husband nor her eldest son tended to listen to her council or follow her advice, if anything the protests she was sure to lodge over the potential match would be sure to set them even farther along the path to a wildling Consort Stark than anything else.

…

When they were finished bathing and dressing in the finery provided, Jon taking the Vaelarys signet ring with its dragon-egg shaped Valyrian diamond set into Valyrian steel on his right middle finger and setting his mother’s arm-cuff as a bracelet with its Valyrian steel, amethysts, and diamond motif on his left wrist, they separated.

Bael was off to find their room, Jon having made it clear earlier over their meal that the two would share as with the Northern Lords - plus whichever southroners roused themselves for the tourney - set to descend on Winterfell space was shortly to become a premium.  If he remembered anything about Sansa’s fretting over room assignments, he’d bet that highest ranking guests would gain the Lord’s room with the next - such as if the Targaryens came either in full or in part - in the Lady’s as unlike Ned and Cat in his old life Brandon and his wife kept separate rooms.  The First Keep wasn’t a ruin - which was a surprise when he’d noted it - but would host yet more guests.

All of which was a strain on coffers that Jon was _ecstatic_ were no longer his problem to worry over.

Making his way to his uncle’s study, he was pleased to find that the ironwood chest with the Vaelarys sigil wrought on the lid had been taken there as he’d requested, finding it along with his three uncles and his two eldest cousins in this life: Robb and Thorin.

“Jon.”  Brandon greeted him with a nod and a smile.  “We’ve gathered as you asked.”

“If I didn’t believe it before.”  Robb murmured in an aside as he eyed the sight his newfound cousin made draped in silver and purple with Valryian steel at hip, hand, and wrist.  “I would now. Have you ever seen the like?”

Thorin merely shook his head in the negative.

Perhaps the Targaryens made such a sight with their silver or silver-gold hair - aside from the few that were dark haired - and Valyrian eyes but as far north as Winterfell those who could claim to have seen a dragonlord in the flesh were few and limited to all but the elder Starks and a scant handful of their retainers.

“Thank you, uncles, cousins.”  Jon nodded to them each in turn even as he knelt and used the key he kept on him at all times to unlock the chest.  “I assume that Uncle Benjen has told you of the dangers that wait beyond the Wall?”

“He has.”  Brandon confirmed, watching his nephew with canny eyes.  They had some idea of what was in that chest from the sounds it made during transport but no solid proof.

If Jon had opened it once it came into his possession from the men he met - according to Benjen’s report - in Eastwatch it hadn’t been around his uncle.

“Good.”  Jon’s face was grim even as he lifted out a dozen daggers and a bag full of the arrowheads.  “There’s three ways to kill a wight.” He explained at a good clip, tossing the weapons on the desk before his uncle.  “Fire, dragonglass, and Valyrian steel. Regular fire doesn’t work against the White Walkers. Their very flesh is so cold without taking into account their powers over the ice and snow and wind that they smother it in moments.  Dragonglass works but they wear boiled leather, iron, and bronze armor. Valyrian steel is best, though wildfire and dragonfire will work as well.”

“These are…”  Brandon breathed out in surprise, passing the bag of arrowheads to Ned who in turn passed it to Robb, then it continued around to Thorin and Benjen before being replaced on the desk as each of the men studied the daggers.  Even a single dagger of Valyrian steel could be worth a fortune. And Jon had a chest filled with a score or more of them and hundreds of arrowheads made of the same.

“The best weapons we have against the dead.”  Jon nodded. “It’s my wish to open negotiations with the Prince of Dragonstone to mine the dragonglass deposits there.  By the time Winter comes, I intend that every man and woman, northman or Free Folk, willing to fight the Others and their army will be outfitted with dragonglass for most with the best archers and fighters given the Valyrian steel I own.  A war _is_ coming, Uncle Brandon.  And the dead come with it.”

“No need to bother the Prince.”  Ned spoke up after trading wordless glances with his brothers.  “The Mountain Clans as well as those of Skagos mine dragonglass.  I’d rather we approach them first as the war is still years away and the enemy on the other side of the Wall.  So long as it stands then we can safely mine the material from either location.”

“Agreed.”  Brandon nodded, then asked: “Benjen made mention of you speaking of the Wall being destroyed.  Have you... _Seen_ how such a thing might occur?”

“The Horn of Winter is one way, and one Mance has already given up on.”  Jon admitted after a moment’s waffling. “Otherwise a dragon can do it.”

_That_ had all eyes shooting to stare at him with varying levels of shock and incredulity.

“You-you’ve seen _dragons_ , living _dragons_ , in your dreams?”  Thorin spluttered a moment.

“Dragons are pure magic, much like direwolves.”  Jon smirked, arching a brow. “The power to _See_ comes from them.  They never died, they’ve just been waiting.  Tell me, cousins.” His grin widened into a flash of teeth that was nothing short of ominous.  “Have the wolf dreams started yet?”

…

Jon walked like a ghost through the halls of his one-time home.

Rather than the cacophony he’d expected from his extremely provocative question, the two heirs had merely exchanged knowing looks and their father’s forebearing ones while Uncle Benjen watched them all flabbergasted.  Benjen had come to accept that _Jon_ was a warg.  With a direwolf companion that acted like Ghost it was impossible to hide the link from those who knew what they were looking at.  Somehow that hadn’t translated for Benjen into his _other_ nieces and nephews possessing the same gifts, likely dismissing it as a part of Jon’s dragon blood given the vaunted reputation between the lost dragons and their riders, even with the rather telling _coincidence_ of all the Stark children having direwolf companions long before Jon was found beyond the Wall.

Yes, it seemed.  The answer to his question was _yes_.  All of them were having wolf dreams though not all of them had the same level of clarity or control over them.

Jon had put that much together with Sansa long before Bran reappeared as a greenseer and Arya returned from learning to be one of the more efficient and vengeful killers Jon had ever met.

Despite appearances otherwise in his last world, _Sansa_ had far greater control over her skills than Arya had ever done, the same with Rickon.  Lady had been the best-mannered of the direwolves under Sansa’s tutelage for a _reason_ and it had nothing to do with the she-wolf being sweeter natured.  A direwolf was a direwolf and while they at times might _echo_ the temperaments of their warg companions, it took more than sweet treats and sweet thoughts to put one on a leash.

All seven of his cousins were used to their companions now, able to work with them to an extent that before had only existed between Jon, Robb, and Bran as Rickon had been too young and wild and the girls separated from their she-wolves less than a year after they’d been bonded to them.

That was a good change, an excellent one in fact, even if at the moment all the direwolves were treated as little more than odd pets and effective guards for the Stark children.

He and Ghost would help change that.

Robb and Greywind much like Jon and Ghost had learned to use their bond in battle through trial and error.  In this world, no matter in what form war may come, anyone trying to attack the Starks would face a snarling vanguard of white fangs.  Only experience could teach a direwolf - even a bonded one - to hunt soldiers and mounted knights with the same skill they learned to take down wild prey.  Experience that Jon and Ghost had and would be working with the other direwolves for them to gain even if he had to do it covertly.

Dodging sword, spear, and arrows was a different matter entirely than antlers and claws.

But they had time.

The direwolves - and their companions - would learn and create the best protection against the living _and_ the dead that a Stark could ever have.

Jon’s memories led him through the halls and secret passageways to the crypts, a torch in hand leading him ever deeper and deeper in, until he came to a hidden alcove that only Starks knew existed: the very heart of the hot spring caverns over which Winterfell had been built.

Little did most know but the cave system under Winterfell was extensive and Mushroom the Fool’s fancies over a pair of dragons being able to mate and live in them not nearly as far-fetched as the Starks had been quick to decry when his memoirs were printed filled with ramblings over everything from dragon eggs hidden in the Winterfell crypts to Viserys the First being poisoned.

None of the Stark children had ever found dragon eggs to their dismay, but the crypts and the caverns were _certainly_ large enough to play host to at least one dragon and as he made his way down to the main hot spring he chuckled at the sight of Saerax swimming like a giant scaley cat with wings in the massive hot spring that was large enough to play host to all the denizens of Witnerfell and half of Wintertown with room for more.

_I see you found the entrance_.  Jon thought at his winged companion as he walked over and sat beside Ghost who’d beat him down to the caverns with significant time to spare.  The main entrance - and escape tunnel - from the crypts was hidden in a treacherous canyon that had been cut through the Wolfswood by the White Knife River thousands of years ago.  It was a dangerous path for any but the most surefooted people any longer but for a dragon and a direwolf finding and using it was a matter of the simplest ease.

He didn’t wonder that Bran hadn’t used it making his escape with Rickon, Osha, Hodor, and the boys’ direwolves when the Ironborn sacked Winterfell _before_.  With his inabiity to walk, Hodor’s simple-mindedness, and Rickon’s youth the only ones who would’ve stood a chance of not falling to their deaths would’ve been Osha and the direwolves.  All the Stark children were taught the path and how to navigate it once they were deemed old enough to keep the secret and while it hadn’t been a challenge for Bran before his fall, after it was an impossibility.

A sense of affection came from both his companions, Saerax swimming over and laying their massive head near his lap for pats and pets and scratches.

Though they’d managed to talk to each other in the way of dragon and rider, they’d missed each other nonetheless and Jon was ecstatic to be reunited with his friend even if having Saerax hiding in the caverns at night and flying high above the North and hunting far from people was a significant risk to revealing their secret before its most opportune moment.

“Soon, Saerax.”  Jon promised the massive dragon that was still growing quickly, not having slowed much despite being of a size with Drogon before they’d even left the Valley of Thenn and Dany’s dragons having slowed in their growth dramatically after Meereen, even Drogon.  “Soon you won’t have to hide anymore. Even if I have to burn the Citadel to the _ground_ to protect you from the scheming of the Maesters.”

Oh yes, Jon _remembered_ well what Sam had found out regarding the Citadel and their hate of dragons and the dragonblooded Old Valyrians.

Those grey sheep had cost his family _everything_ with their plots and schemes and lust for controlling power in Westeros.

Looks and dragon or not, Jon was of the North.

And the North Remembers.


	11. Chapter 11

**Winter’s Wolf**

**Chapter Ten: Uppity Southroners**

 

Rather than the expected hush of the morning when Brandon, Benjen, and Ned ventured into the practice yard before breaking their fasts the morning after their nephew’s arrival as they expected, they heard the sweet  _ ting ting ting _ of steel on steel.

Someone, for the first time since the ritual of matching steel against steel whenever any two or more of them were in one place of a morning to keep from growing stale, slow, and old, had beaten the brothers to meeting the dawn with building up a healthy sweat and the burn of well-exercised swordarms.

Ned was a swordsman superior to his brothers it was true, but neither of them were  _ poor _ by any means for all that Brandon preferred a large double-bladed war axe and Benjen was the archer of the trio.  All of them had been raised to fight. They were Northmen. Unlike southroners who played at war, Northmen waged a constant battle from birth against wildlings, predators stalking their forests, and the very land they loved so much.   _ Weak _ Northmen didn’t survive to their tenth nameday.  Bad fighters didn’t tend to last long enough to spread their seed.

Say what one liked about the Stark brothers, none of them were either weak or poor fighters.

A shared glance had them walking softly and resting hands over their swords lest the sheathes smack or even just brush against their clothes and armor and give away their presence to whoever was such an early riser to beat them to the yard - though given the rarity of the scene, it wasn’t much work to at least  _ guess _ as to their identity.

And as they came around the last wall before the yard, their guess was proven true at the sight that met their eyes - and made Brandon in particular that their sons tended to wait for sword practice until  _ after _ their first meal.

Despite the late Summer nip to the early morning air, both their nephew with his Valyrian hair glowing white-silver in the dawn light and his companion were stripped to their skins to the waist.  Skin and scars on show with nary a chest hair to be found given truth to their omegan natures, the blond and redhead went at each other hammer and tongs, bare flesh gleaming with sweat giving truth to how long they’d been at their work.  And as a hastily-muffled curse from Ned confirmed when a swipe of one of the pair of daggers the redhead wielded nicked their nephew’s right forearm: it was with live steel not practice or blunted tourney swords.

“Better!”  Their nephew called out, not pausing for even a moment despite the cut, the silver of old scars from training and new pink ones showing that he wasn’t unaccustomed to the dangers of training whether with blunted or live steel, as well as some of the more vicious ones on show no doubt from the dangers he’d faced beyond the Wall.  More than one of those scars looked like fang or claw marks, proving that it wasn’t  _ only _ the White Walkers and the dead one had to fear in the winter lands.  “Daggers are best to slash or stab, not  _ hack _ like your axes.  Again!”

They took up their positions and went at each other again, Bael’s daggers fending off strikes of Jon’s bastard sword that he moved in a peculiar manner.

A manner that of them only Benjen recognized the reasoning behind as it wasn’t the skilled and fluid motions of a master swordsman that Benjen had spoken of so highly before.

“By all the gods.”  Benjen’s eyes shot wide as he realized why the movements seemed familiar.  “He’s training the boy to fight against the  _ Others _ and their ice swords.”  He shook his head, scowling deeply, voicing what  _ truly _ bothered him - and the others once he said it.  “ _ How many times _ has he fought them to be well enough versed to teach another?”

“Didn’t he do the same at the Wall?”  Ned asked, a bit puzzled at Benjen’s surprise, his younger brother shaking his head.

“No.  No, there he focused more on giving them solid skills.  The way Thorin’s would-be-love fights he’s no novice or brawler needing  _ any _ skill but a practiced fighter working on counters for an exact style of fighting.”

Ned hummed at that, arching a brow as he studied his young nephew with his scars, Valyrian steel weaponry, and silver-white hair twined up into an inverted braid that made a ridge down his head from his forehead to the base of his neck with the tail left to swing free.

A distinctly  _ Valyrian _ style, that, not one likely to be seen outside of the Targaryens and their Valyrian vassal houses in Westeros and even then only rarely given that for the most part they made at least a mummer’s show of acclimating to the prevailing Andal culture in the belly of the Seven Kingdoms.

The North, Dorne, and Iron Islands were all a  _ much _ different beast than what were considered the Andal kingdoms that when Northmen spoke of the South they were referring to of the Riverlands, Vale, Reach, Westerlands, Stormlands, and the parts of the Crownlands that weren’t Valyrian.

In Dorne the “Stony” Dornish of the Red Mountains that bordered the Stormlands were mostly First Men, strange but similar to their Northmen cousins, with the “Salty” Dornish being mostly Rhoynar, and the “Sandy” Dornish a mixture of the two with some Andal.

The less said about the old ways of the Iron Islands the better.

“Fuck.”  Brandon muttered as Jon’s skin caught the light of the dawn and turned even more luminous.  “Those Targaryen cunts are going to cream themselves over a half-Valyrian omega that looks like  _ that _ .”  His tone was almost a whine.   _ “How in all the hells are we supposed to protect him from  _ them?”

“If you think our nephew needs protection you haven’t been paying attention, brother.”  Benjen snorted as Brandon’s whine carried - if not the words themselves - and the dueling pair stopped and turned to look in their direction.

The look the Lord of Winterfell shot him in turn was nearly  _ dripping  _ with disdain.

“It’s not an open attack I’m worried over,  _ brother _ .”  Brandon hissed, eyes narrowed as Bael and Jon spoke to each other softly, Bael running over to reclaim their missing shirts from the fence rail next to the archery butts they’d been tossed over as Jon moved towards them.  “It’s  _ politics _ .  Jon could very well be the best fighter alive but that won’t  _ help _ when the Targaryens demand his hand for one of them or their vassals.  As protective as he is, it’d be the work of less than a day for those fucking sisterfuckers to know  _ just _ where to press to get him to agree.”

“And with Winter bringing the Long Night,” Ned murmured, expression and voice thoughtful.  “He’s not likely to refuse a match,  _ any _ match, that would buy us men, arms, or supplies.”

All three of them thought about that a moment, studying their nephew - his strength, his beauty, his clear Valyrian heritage - then in unison voiced a resounding:  _ “Fuck.” _

“Is it too late to send him back over the Wall to deal with Rayder for us?”  Benjen asked with gallows humor as Jon reached them, frowning as he caught Brandon’s question.

“I thought you like Bael well enough, Uncle?”

“Aye, I do.”  He covered the ill-timed joke.  “Merely thinking of all the suitors you’re going to have to beat off with that sword of yours if you intend to return him unspoiled to his family someday.”

Jon snorted at  _ that _ idea.  “Please.”  He rolled his eyes.  “Bael’ll do the running off himself, the same as he’s done with the dozens who asked for him since he blossomed as an omega and a few before.  Don’t worry about  _ him _ .  Worry about any suitors who try to  _ insist _ without his favor.”

The brothers all took a breath in relief that Benjen’s excuse worked.

Not  _ one _ of them wanted to scare off their sister’s only child with worries of plotting Targaryens.

Or worse, as an idea occurred to Ned, prowling  _ Lannisters _ .

…

“Uncle Brandon,” Jon said once he’d shrugged into the shirt Bael retrieved and been given a prompting look from his friend that had him rolling his eyes if only on the inside.  “Bael prefers the war axe which isn’t my favored weapon. Would you consent to a spar and some polishing on his skills if he needs it?”

Brandon knew  _ that _ look in the mentioned boy’s blue eyes.

“You both intend to enter the tourney don’t you?”

“Well, it is for me.”  Jon shrugged, a crooked grin on his pretty face.  “Would seem a shame if  _ others _ were fighting in my name but not myself or my friend.”

“Fair enough.”  Brandon set aside any complaints and protests that would be certain to come in hot and heavy from the likes of his wife and the southron cohort.   _ They _ may restrain tourneys to alpha and beta males but the North had no such laws or customs.  If someone wanted to compete in such a thing as a tourney, had the coin to pay the entrance fee, and knew the risks who was he to deny them save for limiting the joust to the nobleborn lest the southroners riot.  “Well, lad.” Brandon eyed up his possible future good-son with a discerning eye. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”

Brandon led the younger male over to the armory door, opening it with a key in his cloak and set to selecting practice weapons for himself and the boy until he had his measure of skill lest one of them end up seriously injured as Jon arched a questioning brow at his fath-Uncle Ned.

“Alright.”  Ned scratched at his stubbled jaw then shot a look at the blade sheathed at his nephew’s hip.  “But  _ not _ with Valyrian steel if you’re not going to put on armor.  Lyanna’s going to be the devil to deal with already when we pass on thanks to your adventures.  I won’t need her pecking at me over marking up her son.”

And as it turned out, Benjen’s estimations of both young men had been dead accurate.

What Bael lacked in skill with a sword he  _ more _ than made up with an axe while Jon...well, perhaps it was a good thing that the Sword of Morning was likely to stay in the Red Keep with the King.

Losing the title of the finest swordsman in the realms to a young omega male was likely to anger an alpha even as settled and mature as Ser Arthur Dayne.

…

His aunt Ashara was right as it turned out, which Jon was coming to understand would often be the way of things more often than not.

Once their early morning weapons practice was over and they’d made themselves presentable for the meal - which was mainly a brisk wash and change into fresh practice shirts though this time with simple leather armor for more practice later with Jon’s cousins - Brandon and the others led him over to the stables.  

The direwolves were nowhere to be found, Jon easily dismissing the absence to the worried servants with word that they were off “romping” with Ghost.  That that romping was for the purpose of beginning the younger wolves’ training in the skills absent creatures raised in a castle rather than the wild was neither here nor there.  That he also intended to teach them with Ghost’s help how to do everything from take down a knight on mounted horse to fight effectively with their human companions in a pitched battle was  _ also _ not mentioned.

Jon was led over to a saddled and prancing warhorse, a stallion draped in the silver and purple of House Vaelarys, the massive beast as large as any Dothraki blood stallion but with the bones of a Northern mount.  Pitch black, for a moment Jon thought he was staring at Sandor’s Stranger. Then Jon caught his intelligent brown eyes and had a moment of vertigo as he found himself staring at himself and the scene for a moment before returning to himself.

Though his bond with Ghost and Saerax he felt a bit of grumbling over the newest warg-bond but neither truly protested as Jon had a moment of amusement wondering if he was to gain more companions than even Varamyr Sixskins before he was dead and gone.

“What’s his name?”  Jon asked even as he was climbing over the paddock rail to meet his new friend.  The warhorse wasn’t a direwolf but somehow he had a feeling that he wouldn’t be any less impressive - if moderately less fearsome - mounted on the horse than his other companions.

“That’s for you to decide.”  Brandon told him, pleasure at Jon’s being obviously taken with his uncle’s gift shining through.  “Though,” he was a bit chagrined. “Given his temperament for all but your cousins,” and they all knew why  _ that _ was.  “The trader called him Bastard.”

Jon almost choked on a laugh over a joke that only he would understand in his new world, holding out his hand and stroking down Bastard’s silky nose in a scene reminiscent of the day he’d met Balerion.

“Aye,” his mouth twitched with bitter amusement.  The gods did so love their little jokes. “That’ll do well enough.”

If over the coming weeks Brandon had cause to regret the gift of the massive warhorse as his nephew showed a daredevil’s spirit that had hardly been smothered by his ventures beyond the wall: galloping headlong through the forest despite the closeness of the trees,  _ standing _ in the saddle, practicing all sorts of maneuvers straight out of a battlefield including using his dragonbone bow from horseback, and even teaching the Stark direwolves how to down a rider from the saddle while avoiding hooves and weapons alike using himself as the dummy; well he only had himself to blame.

…

Jon and Bael took to fletching the ironwood arrow shafts and attaching the Valyrian steel broadheads in the Great Hall after the evening meal, drawing the attention and interest of many of the higher-placed castle servants and guardsmen.

Thorin was quick to pounce on the opportunity to try and sweet-talk his would-be-love - and Jon was completely without shame over using Bael to put his cousin to work helping them.

Robb and Arya - Ned’s twin alphas - were sure to join them, Jon finding Arya utterly unchanged from the girl she was before they all left Winterfell if significantly less bitter.  He wasn’t surprised by that. The wolf’s blood had always been strong in her, his one-time favored sister being an alpha and much older as Robb’s twin was hardly going to change that part of her.  From what he could puzzle out Lady Ashara’s easy acclimation to northern ways and not expecting her children to play at being southron lordlings and ladies was to be praised for both Arya’s lessened bitterness as well as Robb’s lack of overcompensation regarding his skills.

Dealing with Northern lords and men who looked askance at a redheaded Stark heir was Thorin’s problem this time around, not Robb’s, and it showed in Robb’s greater ease with himself and others.

Thorin it seemed had decided to deal with the derision of a Tully mother differently than Robb had which in turn was likely due to Brandon being barely tolerant of his wife rather than deeply in love with her as Ned had come to be.  Where Ned had expected his wife to be respected by both their household and his vassals, Brandon seemed uncaring regarding Catelyn at all. He loved his children by her - that much was clear - and that it seemed was the only reason why he hadn’t sent her back to her father’s house or to a septry when his dislike of his wife was clear for all to see.

As a result - and Brandon dismissing any southron retainers in his wife’s entourage long before Jon ever arrived though he’d yet to hear the specifics of that or why it had occurred - Thorin used a healthy amount of the charm he’d inherited from his father and the fierceness of his axe and sword to demand respect from the sons and heirs of the North as their future lord.

He made no apologies for his blood, simply showed that despite his looks it affected him not at all.

Jon wasn’t surprised either to find that as Brandon’s children had never been schooled in the faith of the Seven or even entered a sept - and Ashara had proven her cunning as a southron lady by converting to the Old Faith rather than clinging to the Seven - nor did Ned’s that the North was much more at ease with the situation all around without fear that the next generation of Starks would turn into godswood burners at the behest of their mothers.

…

One evening before Winterfell was descended upon by the masses of the Lords of the North or the tourney hopefuls, Jon sat near the hearth in the Great Hall.

His clever hands were busy at work attaching the Valyrian steel arrowheads to the ironwood shafts he and Bael had fletched over the weeks prior, Bael next to him doing the same, all the while the younger omega was being drilled on something both boring and fascinating to Jon’s cousin: noble houses.

Boring, as it was information all of them like any other noble child was taught from the cradle.

_ Fascinating _ because while Jon had easily coasted through the houses of the North and the Great Houses of Westeros, he’d then dived off into the crownlands for some reason before getting to House Targaryen.

Though if one knew to look closer at the houses from the crownlands closer than taking it at face value, they’d have seen that Jon wasn’t drilling Bael on houses of the crownlands.

He was drilling him now on the existing families with the blood of Old Valyria.

“House Velaryon?”

“Silver sea horse on a turquoise field.”  Bael answered promptly, narrowing his eyes in concentration. “Seat is Driftmark.  Words:  _ The Old, the True, the Brave _ .”

“House Blackfyre?”

Several of those listening sucked in shocked breaths or exchanged glances to Bael’s puzzlement but he answered anyway.

“Black three headed dragon on a red field.  No actual seat anymore. Words:  _ Deeper than Blood.” _

Jon simply nodded and carried on.

“House Targaryen?”

“Uh,” Bael blinked.  “Opposite coloring of Blackfyre: red on black instead of the opposite.  Seat is both Dragonstone and King’s Landing. Words:  _ Fire and Blood _ .”

“Ruling house of Westeros, Sovereign of the Seven Kingdoms, Protectors of the Realm.”  Jon added. “House Vaelarys?”

Bael thought hard for a moment then groaned, shaking his head.

“Really?”  Robb asked, mouth twitching in amusement.  “You remember the details for an extinct house but not the one your best friend is the lord of?”

“Peace, cousin.”  Jon interfered before Robb could discover for himself how much of a  _ bad fucking idea _ it was to rile the son of Tormund Giantsbane.  “Bael has never needed to know the houses of the dragonlords before in our travels anymore than he did the nobility of Westeros.  I doubt I ever told him and how else would he have learned it?” He arched a brow at the mirror image of him from another life.

And the copper dropped.

Jon wasn’t finishing his lesson with the crownlands.

He was finishing it with the houses of Westeros claiming strong links to Old Valyria - hence the inclusion of the extinct, or so everyone but him and a few others thought, House Blackfyre.

Jon turned his gaze back towards his friend and completed the lesson for the day - for more than just his friend.

“House Vaelarys, silver dragon ouroboros on purple or indigo field.  Former seat was Qohor, ruled over the Golden Fields from Ny Sar to the Sorrows, bordered by Dagger Lake and the Darkwater.  One of the Fourteen, also called the Greater Houses of Dragonlords of Valyria. Words:  _ We Do Not Yield _ .”

Bael considered that, not really understanding all of the implications of it while everyone else in the Hall did at least to some point, then eyed up his friend’s clothes.

“If your colors are silver on purple, why do you wear it the other way around?”

Arya snorted where she sat at her twin’s side oiling her bow as the others worked on their own weapons or on the arrows with the two omegas.

“Because it’s bloody expensive, purple dye or cloth.”  She rolled her eyes. “Has to be imported from Braavos or Lys.  He’s being  _ practical _ for all that the most uppity southroners won’t like it.”

“From what I understand,” Bael flashed a grin over at Thorin while Jon was distracted grinning at Arya.  “Uppity southroners won’t like much of anything.”

“Well,” Jon laughed.  “You’re not wrong.”

…

 


End file.
